Thieves
by TMBlue
Summary: When Hermione wakes up one morning with no memory of the past four months of her life, she struggles to piece together what happened, with Harry and Ron suddenly cold towards her for something she doesn't remember doing.
1. Sticks & Stones & Apologies, Part 1

_**A/N: **A few quick, semi-important notes._

_1. This is going to be one of possibly three Big Bang-sized stories that I will post this year._

_2. My goal is to post a chapter a week on this story for 24 weeks, at which point the story should be complete._

_3. I've started writing the FINAL chapter of Sharing Sleep. I'm also working on With Me. I have not forgotten! :)_

_4. I came up with the plot to this story whilst listening to a lot of **The Joy Formidable**. Therefore, I have linked up one of their songs to each section of this story and added a selection of lyrics at the end, which I think kind of go with the story. Ignore them, if you like. I tend to write to music, so it inspires a lot..._

_Here is **Chapter One, Part One**'s track, "Cradle" -  
>http :  / www . youtube . com / watch?v=W66yhfMb4d0 _[remove spaces]_  
><em>

_5. In order for this story to work and not make you hate me, you all have to sort of blindly trust me. This was an experiment, in a way, to see if I could make this combination of plot devices work in a realistic and in-character way. I think I have figured out a way to do that, and I would be happy to hear your opinions on whether or not you think I did... However, it is going to take some wading through stuff that could possibly make you question what the hell I'm up to before you get to that point. So, like I said... **TRUST**? :)_

_5. I love you._

* * *

><p><strong>Thieves<strong>

**Chapter One - Sticks and Stones and Apologies, Part One**

On August 31st, Hermione Jean Granger opened her eyes.

Golden sunlight filled her room, stretching to each corner, blinding her. She sat up, blinked rapidly to adjust her eyes to the early morning glow, and her world fell very slowly into place.

She was _home_.

She tried to focus, to make sense of everything... everything that for some reason felt so distant as she fully regained consciousness. But it was as if her mind was full of cobwebs, old from lack of use. Hidden or discarded thoughts rested beneath the dust, but she couldn't reach them, or even know for sure that they were real, that they really awaited her return.

She stood, suddenly frightened, and stared, unblinking, out her window, her skin breaking out into furious goosebumps, despite the warmth of the sun beating down on her through the glass. It was like waking from a dream, desperately trying to pull it back to the forefront in order to remember. But it slipped through her fingers like smoke, and she had no idea how to gather it back.

Heart beating wildly, her eyes scanned her light blue walls, recognizing her location with a sickening feeling. Something was wrong. She called up the date, remembering how she'd searched for it at the end of the war, having been too busy until that moment to worry about such things. May 2nd seemed oddly distant, though she remembered everything so vividly and _knew _that it was only yesterday...

Yesterday.

So it was May 3rd. Why, then, was she in her parents' home today... alone?

Frantically, she tried to recall arriving, what had led her from the scene of the last battle against Voldemort to her childhood home, her warm quilts, and the eerie silence of unexpected solitude. But as hard as she tried to remember, she couldn't piece it together.

Panic set in, and she breathed deeply to calm down. It was irrational, she thought, to feel this way. She just had to concentrate, to steady herself and think. And to contact Harry and Ron as soon as possible and find out what the hell was going on.

Where were they now? Why had she found herself so soon after the war, after all they'd been through, alone? Whatever had happened, it hadn't been a part of her plans. And the worst part was, she couldn't remember...

And so, she choked back her uneasiness, and disapparated from her bedroom... to just outside The Burrow's wards.

Wind whipped through her hair, casting it across her face in frizzy bits. She stepped closer, towards the Burrow, brushing a hand over her eyes to clear her hair away so she could properly see...

But with her next step, a jolt of something like fire seared her skin, running through her nerves... She jumped back, and for a moment, she was too stunned to realise what had happened. But then, as she took another, much slower step backwards, she understood.

The wards. She was unable to get past them. Which had never been true before. Ever. Ron's family had ensured she was always able to pass.

She wasn't sure if it frightened her more not to know why they'd shut her out, or to have to wonder if they were alright. Tears welled in her eyes, and she couldn't seem to control them. But as she blinked to free them, the world around her began to spin and she tumbled, eyes suddenly fixed on the trees to the right of the property.

Red, yellow, and orange.

It wasn't May 3rd. It couldn't be.

She began gasping in air, gulp after gulp, but none of it seemed to quite reach her lungs. And the last thing she saw was the Burrow's front door opening, and a figure with messy jet black hair emerging slowly... out into the _autumn _afternoon.

* * *

><p>"Miss Granger?"<p>

She blinked her eyes open and was immediately face to face with an elderly healer, who was looking back into Hermione's eyes with a mixture of concern and relief.

"Where am I?" Hermione choked out. "What's happened?"

"You're at St. Mungo's," the healer explained, politely, backing away a few inches to give Hermione room to breathe. "Harry Potter brought you here."

Her eyes shot open wide, and she tried to sit up.

"Harry?"

"Yes," the healer assured her, concern returning.

"Where is he? !" Hermione nearly shouted, sitting fully up in bed now.

"He's gone," the healer said, simply, alarmed by Hermione's outburst. "He brought you here, asked us to take care of you, and he left..."

Why would he leave her here alone? Confusion re-mounted, and she was desperate for the answers she wasn't sure how to find.

"Was there anyone with him?" she asked, needing the answer to be yes.

"No, I don't believe so..." the healer said, slowly.

Hermione breathed a bit too heavily for a moment, trying to lift this fog of confusion that would not shake away…

"Miss Granger, do you remember what happened to you?" the healer asked, gently.

Not only could she not remember what had happened to her between collapsing outside the Burrow's wards and now, but she couldn't remember... well, rather an awful lot, it was turning out...

"No..." she breathed, having no idea how to properly explain it...

"Mr. Potter told us you'd collapsed, and that he'd apparated here with you."

"What's the date?" Hermione cut in, remembering the way the red leaves of the Burrow's trees had blurred as she'd fallen...

"I'm sorry?" The healer furrowed her eyebrows down at Hermione.

"Please..."

No matter what the healer said, it was going to be a shock. She could feel it, dread rising up in the back of her throat...

"August 31st," and Hermione's heart dropped painfully as her eyes welled with tears, "but-"

"It can't be!" she shouted, irrationally... because she knew that it _was_. Gasping in air, she closed her eyes, and finally, she nodded. "...but it is, isn't it."

"Miss Granger?" and as Hermione opened her eyes again, she noted the presence of a second, concerned looking healer, slowly making her way into the room, eyes on Hermione.

At least now one thing made sense. She'd just lost four months of her life. And she had absolutely no idea where to start to find them again, except to her healers now, and hope for the best... to hope for a cure.

"I can't remember anything after the 2nd of May."

* * *

><p>They ran so many tests she almost forgot what she was being tested for. Which would have been ironic, considering...<p>

The healers, who had gathered around her, seemed to find her case not only completely puzzling, but also terribly intriguing, neither of which she considered to be a good sign. If they couldn't figure out what had happened to her, what hope did she have to restore what she'd lost?

But when, at last, they'd finished their tests, she couldn't wait for another moment. She stood from the cold table on which she'd been lying, spells trickling around her in an attempt to piece her memory together.

"I need to get in touch with Harry Potter," she said, firmly. "Please, do you have an owl I could use?"

"Sure," one of the healers said, and she took Hermione's elbow, directing her down the hallway towards a tiny room, strewn with owl treats and bits of ribbon, formerly used to tie together scrolls of parchment. "Here," the healer said, and she pointed Hermione towards a small barn owl and a stack of blank parchment.

"Thank you," and she began to write.

_Harry,_

_I don't know what's happening. Please, if you can come to St. Mungo's with Ron... I need to see you both, to talk to you and figure this out. Harry, I've lost my memory. I don't know what's happened over the summer. The last thing I can recall is going home to the Burrow after the battle at Hogwarts in May._

_I'll be staying in St. Mungo's overnight, and I desperately need to see you... and Ron. Please say that you'll come..._

_-Hermione_

* * *

><p>Harry chewed at his bottom lip, caught somewhere between frustrated and cautious, having no idea how to approach Ron about this. They were, sadly, both seated on the edge of Ron's bed, in his room, and so it was going to be impossible not to say something. Ron had watched the tiny owl fly through his open bedroom window, aimed directly for Harry's lap. He'd watched Harry open the letter, read it over... read it over again...<p>

It was useless to go on pretending like it was nothing. He could tell from the way Ron's cheeks had reddened in anticipation that he probably already knew, just from the way Harry was acting, exactly who this particular letter was from...

"It's from _her_... isn't it," Ron practically growled, fists clenching the quilt on either side of him.

"Ron..." Harry swallowed, scanning the parchment one last time, "she says she's lost her memory..."

"Bollocks," Ron huffed, turning his eyes away from Harry to glare forward, muscles rigid.

"How do you know for sure?" Harry asked slowly, feeling the fragile eggshells beneath each of his words.

Ron let out something between a derisive laugh and a sob, oddly enough. And Harry's heart skipped over a number of beats as he waited...

"She wants a second chance," Ron said, as if it was completely obviously, "and this is her way of trying to get one."

It sounded... so un-Hermione-like. But then again, so did everything she'd done, recently...

"You think so?" Harry asked softly, feeling a tad guilty for wanting her to be telling the truth. So he wanted one of his best friends - okay, _former _best friends - to have lost her memory? Well, yes. Yes, he did, actually...

"I don't know..." Ron sighed, releasing his death grip on his quilt. He closed his eyes as Harry mulled over their options.

So... she'd done something bad. Really bad. But she was still Hermione, wasn't she? And maybe, just maybe, this loss of memory could bring who she _was _back to them...

"But..." Harry pressed on, thinking aloud, "when have we known her to lie? She doesn't-"

"She doesn't?" Ron interrupted, anger returning as he ripped his eyes open again to glare at Harry.

It wasn't going to be any use trying to work his way through this. Harry knew how irreparable things were now. And it was, honestly, a completely ridiculous hope to have, that because _she _couldn't remember what she had done... that maybe... _they _could forget it, too...

"Okay, the one time," Harry sighed, "but-"

"Yeah, the _one time_..." Ron snapped, bitterly, elbows on his knees as he turned away from Harry again.

There was nothing left to say. They'd see her tomorrow. A fact that Harry was trying very hard not to bring up again, now that the two of them had finally moved past it... He wasn't sure what was going to happen on that train, but if he could just get Ron to Hogwarts without too much trouble...

He nodded to himself, rolled Hermione's letter back up into a tight scroll, and stood, stretching.

"What are you going to do?" Ron asked, looking up at Harry. And from his position on the edge of his bed, messy fringe cutting jaggedly across his forehead, swooping down into his sparkling eyes, Ron looked so much younger than he was... so much more unsure than that brand new, almost-confident Ron that Harry had seen glimpses of before-

"Not going to do anything. You're right," Harry said, "she must be lying."

Ron blinked up at Harry for a second too long, and Harry knew he wanted to believe her nearly as much as Harry himself had wanted to moments ago... But he also knew how futile those lingering desires were, and no matter how much Ron longed to go back, he could never do that. It was much too late.

Harry left Ron to a glowing sunset, echoing through his brightly poster-covered room... And moments later, two floors below, he wrote Hermione a simple reply. Because after all, she was still... _someone_, to him. Someone.

_Hermione,_

_I'm sure I'll see you on the train tomorrow. Good luck._

_-Harry_

* * *

><p>She couldn't sleep. She could feel sleeping potion pooling in the pit of her stomach, mixed with the warmth of a large cup of tea. But she'd known it wouldn't matter then, as she'd sipped it down, as much as she knew it now... now that it was <em>trying <em>to work. Her eyes burned from crying, and her bed in St. Mungo's was much less than comfortable. She'd spent the rest of the evening being tested, climbing to higher floors for inspection and attempted treatments, all of which had failed, turning up nothing...

She could think of no reason why she would suddenly find herself here. And the worst part was that aching feeling that she'd done something wrong that she couldn't remember. Why else would Harry refuse to come and see her? Why else would Ron ignore her like this?

The knowledge that she'd be seeing Harry on the train tomorrow tipped her off to the fact that yes, Hogwarts would begin its school year the following day, with the Hogwarts Express trip. And... that she was enrolled. And that Harry was, too. Was it too much to hope that Ron would be there, as well? That she'd finally be able to find out if he knew something more? She couldn't help but fear the discovery of what she was missing, the memories that had vanished without a trace. But at the same time, she had a very strong feeling that Ron and Harry would know something. That they knew something at this very moment and were being so cruel to her because of that knowledge...

In fact, it wasn't even a suspicion. She could think of no other reason for them to behave this way towards her. And she was always very good at deduction.

At last, dawn broke, and she rose from her bed to collect her things. Unsteady on her feet, she managed to make her way to the front desks, where she checked herself out of care. She wasn't in danger, at least not that they could find. And there was no reason for her to stay here, when she showed no signs of illness or the after effects of having been cursed...

She'd discovered, late into the night, that a group of Aurors had evidently been trying to track down her parents in Australia, to restore their memories. She wasn't sure why she'd waited so long, and when she'd pressed for more information, she'd found out that the search had, of course, been initiated by her, by a series of meetings with the heads of the Auror department, in which she'd stated her case and reasons for behaving in such a rash manner, sending them off with severely altered memories and brand new identities.

Too bad she couldn't remember a bloody moment of those meetings, what she'd said or why...

At least her parents were still safe, and away from this mess, she thought, as she made her way to an apparition point, turning quickly away.

* * *

><p>Trunk packed, she bustled through King's Cross station, feeling almost numb. She had one mission, one plan, and she had to be strong enough to face <em>them<em>, no matter if they wanted to see her or not. She needed answers... answers that she was _sure_ they had.

She boarded the train ten minutes early and made quick work of checking every individual compartment for signs of Harry... or Ron. When she could not locate them, she selected a compartment for herself and waited, heart pounding against her ribs as she stared, forehead against the glass, out the window, at the platform beyond... where so many students were being hugged and kissed goodbye, parents clinging to their first year students with happy tears in their eyes.

And before she knew it, she was sound asleep.

* * *

><p><em>I can see he says what he means<br>I can't say what he means when he says that  
>I'll pretend, I'll pretty pretend, when all I wanna see is the end of this<em>

_I can see he says what he means  
>We'll deal him sticks and stones and apologies<br>I wish, oh, I wish it was through_

_Split the scars, get up off your knees  
>Just lift the marks to new found kinesis<br>_

_I wish, I wish, I wish the cobwebs would cover me._


	2. Sticks & Stones & Apologies, Part 2

**_A/N:_ **_I realized I won't have computer access tomorrow, so I'm updating one day early._

_I've actually been super nervous to post this chapter because I don't want you all to hate me! Just remember, I have a plan! _

_Still **trust me**? ? I won't hurt you guys... xx_

_Companion track:  
>The Joy Formidable, "Endtapes" -<br>http : / / www . youtube . com / watch?v=fg0zzo-5w1A [remove spaces]_

_OH! ALSO. PLEASE **look at this amazing sketch **that my beautiful friend **napchic** did for the first part of chapter one of this story!_

_http : / / tmblue42 . deviantart . com / art / Thieves-Chapter-One-Part-One-282514673 [remove spaces]  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One - Sticks and Stones and Apologies, Part Two<strong>

She awoke to a flash of red, moving by her compartment door, and the sound of whispered swears. She'd know that combination anywhere. She jolted upright and stood, clambering towards the compartment door, a muttered argument dissolving down the hall as she stuck her head out...

It was them. Ron and Harry… as she'd known that it was. She blinked at their retreating backs.

Ron had... grown. He had to have gained another two inches on Harry now, towering precariously above him.

"Ron!" she shouted, instinctively. He froze, now-defined back muscles clearly going rigid through his thin, green t-shirt. She watched him grasp at Harry's wrist, but Harry turned to glance at her for a moment before glaring and steering Ron further away from her.

She was frozen as she watched them, heart pounding. But it didn't take long for her to fall out of her trance and back into reality, to the fact that they were leaving her and she was simply watching them go.

"Wait, please!" she shouted, but Harry practically dumped Ron into the next available compartment and slammed the door shut, trapping him inside.

As Hermione swiveled out of her compartment and into the narrow hall to approach Harry, he turned to face her directly, a stern look on his face.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, and Hermione stopped walking, feet away from him, to breathe.

"I... I..." she stammered, caught off guard by Harry's sharp expression and harsh tone. "Harry, damn it, what is going _on_? !"

She'd expected something like this, but seeing him now, being this close and being... discarded... It felt like someone was reaching into her chest and ripping her heart from her veins...

But then.

She caught it. For a second, it was there. Pity. Shock. A desire to believe... It flashed through Harry's eyes as he studied her, and she breathed uneasily through her nose, eyes squinted and brows furrowed. But as quickly as it had come, it passed, and he was resolute again.

"You know damn well what's going on," Harry said, voice low and implacable.

"No, I don't!" she wailed. "Oh, please, Harry. Please! Tell me what's happened. Why is everyone being so cold? What have I done?" Her words dissolved into cries of confusion and pain, and Harry's resolve broke down almost completely at the sight of her.

"Tell me this is all just a joke. Hell, I think I'd welcome that at this point..." he said, reading her so carefully that she felt almost naked, his eyes boring into hers as he tried to make sense of something she herself could not name. Whatever had happened, it was bad enough for him not to believe her now. To question her sincerity, when all she needed was an explanation.

"I promise, Harry," she said, gently. "This isn't a joke. I woke up yesterday morning at my parents' old house and thought it was May 3rd."

Harry sucked in a sharp breath and shook his head.

"Can't be," he said. "That's..." He fished around for a word for a moment, but gave it up as he shook his head again.

"Harry, what happened?" she whispered, eyes darting for a moment to the compartment to Harry's right, his body blocking the door, and her position several feet down the hallway preventing her from being able to see anything inside...

Laughter carried down the hall behind her, as several students boarded the train, dragging their trunks noisily along as they searched for a compartment.

"Can we go somewhere else?" Harry asked, looking over her shoulder at the approaching students. "I'll... I'll give you a few minutes, and explain what's happened... but if you're lying..." and he returned his gaze to her, not quite glaring but too close for her liking.

She had nothing to hide, though; and, therefore, his proposal was acceptable. Welcome, even.

"Yes, yes," she said quickly, "I have an empty compartment down here..." and she led the way back to her compartment, which was still miraculously empty, save her trunk.

Harry stepped in behind her, looking awkward and uncomfortable, and he shut the door a bit more forcefully than he'd obviously intended to, flinching at the sound.

"You wouldn't do this to me," he began, "if you knew what it was I have to tell you now." He paused to study her increasingly confused expression, and she only hoped whatever he was seeing there, written across her face, was convincing him of her honesty. "You wouldn't, right?"

She shook her head slowly, though she wasn't sure what she was agreeing to. After all, she had no idea what she 'wouldn't do' because she couldn't remember _doing_ anything in the first place...

"Oh, Harry, if it's this bad... no, no... of course I wouldn't put you through it again. What... what is it?" Apprehension flowed slowly through her at the look of anguish Harry gave her, and she watched him wring his hands before pacing through the compartment to the window, overlooking the station as, at last, the train began to move, blurring King's Cross gently until they'd cleared it, and had set out through London.

She wasn't sure how long they stood there like that, Harry by the window and Hermione standing solidly in the centre of the small compartment, watching him. But finally, he turned round, and he no longer looked so apprehensive. Perhaps he'd resigned himself to his fate, to what he had to say now.

"After the war, you and Ron..." He swallowed and shoved his hands into his pockets, "you got together immediately. I mean, you were together all the time. I gave Ron quite a lot of bollocks over the way he practically worshiped you. And it wasn't like he hadn't done before, but now it was out in the open, and he really didn't give a shit who saw it."

Her heart fluttered lightly in her chest at Harry's description. But it quickly plummeted as she longed to remember what that had felt like... Surely, it had been the most amazing, perfect thing... and now...

She felt slightly sick as Harry paused, chewing his lip. Whatever came next, she felt relatively certain that it didn't include a happy ending...

"About three weeks ago, Ron was at training-"

"Training?" Hermione interrupted, eyebrows shooting up. "For what?"

Harry blinked at her and sighed.

"You really _don't_ remember, do you..." he trailed off.

"Of course I don't! I've told you!" she huffed, hands shaking as she became increasingly impatient with Harry's lack of faith in her.

"Auror training. The two of us enrolled back in June," Harry explained, carefully, and it seemed he took a moment of relief in explaining something so factual and simple, something that wasn't going to hurt. "But by mid-July, Ron was really brooding about having to part ways with you when you returned to Hogwarts. Because, of course, _you _were going to go. No one questioned it. Anyway, you'd been... trying to convince him to come back to school with you. And... well, it finally worked. He had a chat with me to see if I'd come along as well. And with Ginny back at Hogwarts, too, it seemed like it might make some sense. So we enrolled for our seventh year, together."

Hermione nodded, having guessed something similar by the fact that the three of them were now on the same train, on the way to Scotland... She felt a pang of guilt knowing that she'd been trying to persuade Ron to change course and come back with her when he'd already been training to be an Auror. It didn't make a lot of sense for him to come back, really, and she hoped it had been more his decision than Harry had made it sound like. She couldn't believe that she would have done such a thing, that she wouldn't have supported him…

"Then," Harry sighed, and it was obvious that he had reached the bit he was terrified to approach.

This was the part she needed to hear. The part that made her dizzy and set her heart punctuating each of its too-heavy beats inside of her ears.

"About three weeks ago, I was out on a practice mission with Ron. We were gone for forty-eight hours. When we came home, I went straight up to report and Ron went down to the locker room, by the Ministry gym. He'd just come out of the shower..."

Harry paused again and shook his head sadly, closing his eyes and swearing under his breath.

"If I'd known I'd have to tell you all of this..." he trailed off.

Hermione felt her own tears sliding down her cheeks without even knowing she'd been on the verge. She didn't know why; she couldn't remember. But what Harry was going to say next, it was going to destroy her. She could feel it.

"He c-caught you... at the back of the gym. You and... some bloke a year ahead of us. I didn't know him well. Ron told me he'd just started his exams, to qualify for a full time position..."

Hermione held her breath, vision blurred by her tears now.

"You were cheating, with… him," Harry nearly spat. "Ron saw you."

She sobbed out her next breath, closing her eyes and wiping frantically at her face to dry it before opening them again.

"I wouldn't _do _that, Harry!" she shouted, sucking in each breath with a hiccup. "He made a mistake!"

"No," Harry said, firmly. "He didn't."

"He _did_!" Hermione cried, throat constricting as she watched Harry's face fill with frustration.

"He _saw _you, Hermione!"

Harry's voice reverberated off the compartment walls, and she had a moment of irrational fear, that Ron might have heard him. That _everyone _on the train might have...

"He saw something wrong," Hermione said, at last, voice oddly level, numb... "He was mistaken."

"No," Harry said, and a note of sad regret tinged his voice, as if he'd spent far too much time wishing for that very thing... that Ron had been mistaken. "He confronted you. And you admitted to it. And it's why he doesn't want to see you now. Of course, you split up. It's over between you, and it's not going to be fixed. You won't be together again. How could you be after... I'm sure he'll forgive you, someday. He's... _Ron_, after all. But right now... you completely broke him, Hermione."

"I didn't..." she whispered, renewed tears building at the corners of her already bloodshot eyes.

Harry sighed heavily and finally moved away from the window, towards the door.

"I wish it didn't have to be me," Harry said. "If you could have found out any other way... But, I don't know what's happened, or why you can't remember... All I can think is that maybe, you felt so guilty that you... erased your own memory."

Hermione's stomach flipped, unsettling her and nearly setting her off balance. Overwhelmed by words, she had nothing else to say back. And as Harry looked at her, she felt he was looking _through _her, to another version of herself, the one who hadn't done something so vile to his best friend, to the one person he considered closer than family.

To the person she _loved_. With all of her heart.

But the moment passed, and Harry's coldness returned full force. He opened the compartment door and stepped through, but just as he was about to walk away, he froze, and turned back to her.

"I could tell you that I hate you for what you did. I really could. But you don't remember doing it. It really isn't fair, Hermione. But... my loyalty is with Ron. You hurt him, irreparably. The two of you... it was supposed to be... _real_. And I thought... I thought it would last for the rest of your lives. I don't know what you were thinking, what happened to make you cheat, but I can't forgive you for that right now, Hermione. I'm sorry."

He turned his eyes away, and she could only hope it was because he felt something for her, something like compassion. If she couldn't remember, how could she take on the blame for it? But... then she _had _to, didn't she. Because it _had _been her. As much as she liked to think that who she was now - this person caught with no memory of these events - would never have done such a terrible thing, it had been _her _heart and _her _soul that had been capable.

Harry closed the compartment door with a soft click and vanished back down the hall towards his compartment with Ron. Hermione sank down onto the bench behind her and held her breath, imagining a new, uncharted life in which she would _never _have what she'd finally thought she could reach.

And a very small part of her refused to believe it was true. But a big enough part to grow into something she could use to fight. And she would.

* * *

><p><em>Sitting pretty, uptightly<br>The knots keep you at my side, upstairs, in corners_

_Surprises, meant for me_

_In this broken way,  
>Sorry on repeat just fails, always<em>

_Sellotape an end to a story that is hanging over silence, always wasted  
>Swells with every tear drop, pulls my threads to kid gloves<br>Sellotape an end to this  
>Thieves<em>


	3. Sticks & Stones & Apologies, Part 3

_**A/N: **Apparently, I'm often not going to have computer access on Wednesdays. Therefore..._

**_This story will be updated every Tuesday._**

_And now, here it is. Trust? :)_

_Companion track:  
>The Joy Formidable, "Wide Eyed" -<br>http : / / www . youtube . com / watch?v=rHKcOCZFTds [remove spaces]_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One - Sticks and Stones and Apologies, Part Three<strong>

Thunder cracked outside, and the sky darkened ominously as the train sped along its track. He was reminded, for a moment, of third year and the dementors, and he closed his eyes as Harry opened the compartment door to re-enter from using the loo.

"Are you finally going to tell me what the hell happened back there?" Ron asked, eyes still closed.

"Why are you so curious, anyway? I thought you wouldn't want to know," Harry sighed, plopping down into the seat across from Ron.

Ron finally opened his eyes, staring down at his own bony knees as he thought everything through.

Well, of course it wasn't strictly healthy to be this self-destructive. Anything Harry could tell him would likely be painful... excruciating, perhaps. But it was impossible to go on without knowing. It was like his curiosity simply overwhelmed all rational thought, and he was forced to find out the sickening truth, lacking the ability to stop himself.

"Go on, Harry," he sighed. "You know you've got to tell me. It'll drive me mad."

Harry looked extremely wary to proceed, but at last, the truth in Ron's statement must have sunk in, because Harry brushed a hand across the back of his neck and turned to look out the window.

"I think she really has lost her memory, Ron," Harry said quietly, and he paused, staring out through the window at the building storm, waiting for Ron to reply.

"How do you know?" Ron asked, after what felt like a lifetime, his voice scratchy as if it was the first time he'd ever spoken.

Harry turned his eyes back towards Ron now, shaking his head.

"I just have a feeling," Harry said. "I mean, was Hermione ever _that _good of a liar? Even when she did it to you, it wasn't especially convincing for long."

Ron didn't want to believe it. In fact, he felt himself resisting even the possibility that it could be true. That after all she'd put him through, she couldn't even remember what she'd done. He slowly shook his head, casting off any doubts.

"No," he said, firmly. "It just doesn't make sense. I mean _how _does she just lose her memory? What, she woke up one morning and just didn't know what she'd done?"

Harry's throat constricted visibly as he swallowed.

"Harry, this is bullshit, and you've got to know that." Ron shuddered against his bench and crossed his long arms protectively over his chest as lightning ripped through the sky, illuminating their compartment intensely before settling them into soft lantern light once more.

He felt Harry's eyes on him as he turned his own gaze towards the window, watching dark clouds hover above the vast, overgrown fields of the countryside.

"I'm sorry, Ron," Harry said, at last, "but I _do _believe her."

Ron breathed thickly through his nose as he turned a glare on Harry... who looked so disappointed and apologetic. Ron huffed out a heavy sigh and uncrossed his arms, standing and making his way to the door in two strides.

"I'm going to the loo," he announced, though he didn't need to use it at all. He had to get out of this stifling compartment. Had to run away and think.

But as he opened the door and stepped out into the narrow hallway, his stomach twisted uncomfortably at the thought of being even this much closer to _her_. Unwillingly, he looked right, eyes darting down across closed compartment doors as he considered which one she was locked inside of, right now...

He cast a nauseous scowl down the hall before turning and walking in the opposite direction, towards the loo at the other end. He'd come within steps of the door, when it opened, revealing...

_Hermione_.

His heart stopped and he held his breath, hairs on the back of his neck and along his pale, freckled arms standing up on end.

She gasped and clutched the door frame as she stared up at him.

For a long moment, they simply held their breaths at each other, eyes wide. But, at last, he forced his eyes away from hers.

"Move," he growled out, as she was now blocking his path into the loo. He tried looking past her. Tried looking _through _her. But her wide, timid eyes were glowing perfectly round up at him, and he was about to lose the ability to go on standing. Letting out an agitated breath, he almost reached out to move her out of the way himself, but his hands paused inches from her, unable to cross that barrier that separated his skin from hers.

"Ron..." she said softly, voice carrying too forcefully for such a small sound. And his ears were suddenly ringing. He shoved his trembling hands deep into his pockets.

"You're not supposed to come around me," he forced out, body so tense it was painful.

"What do you mean?" she asked, far too innocently.

"You know damn well what I mean! This isn't going to work!" he whisper-shouted, bouncing slightly with sheer frustration. "You may have fooled Harry, but I'm not that daft! I'm not falling for this."

"I'm not fooling anybody!" she said, earnestly, but he was too resistant to the threat of possibly falling into the pit that awaited him if he allowed himself to believe her, and it wasn't going to work. He had to make sure that it didn't.

"Right. You're not! Because _I_ don't believe it!" and he took a small, shuffling step back. He'd forgotten he didn't exactly _need _the loo. That it had been an excuse. It was a large train, after all. He'd find another place to hide.

But as he took another step back, turning several degrees left, away from her, she stepped closer and he ripped his hands out of his pockets in alarm, silently begging her not to touch him.

"Ron, _please _talk to me!" she shouted, forehead creased as she tried to take yet another step closer.

"NO!" he shouted back, skin heating up rapidly as he glared sharply down at her. "Can't you understand what you're asking me to do? ! You're a-a..." but he couldn't select an offensive name to call her. After what she'd done to him... and he _still _couldn't string together any formation of curse words to direct at her for it.

If only he could erase his _love _for her. _God_, that would be the only way...

"Fucking _hell_!" he roared, running a quick hand through his already mussed hair.

She stifled a sob and pressed her lips together, and he felt his heart shattering, even though he wanted to scream at her. He wanted so many conflicting things, really, and it was making him  
>sick. The train rocked briefly as a heavy rain broke suddenly, pelting the roof with repetitive, angry taps.<p>

"I can't _see _you anymore, don't you get it? !" he pleaded, sure that he had to leave now, or risk his own sanity. "I can't do this. You've got to stay away from me. I... I..." That ugly word, _hate_, lingered just out of his grasp, so he shook his head and selected another direction, the only one he could manage now... "What you did... bloody hell, I should despise you for it. But I... I don't want to keep shouting at you and making you cry. You did something _so _fucking horrible to me, but it doesn't make it any easier for me to be an arsehole. Damn it, please just stay away from me, for both of us. Please."

Tears flowed down her cheeks. She tried and failed to hide them, swiping at her own face with her knuckles.

"S-So, we're just stuck?" she cried. "You don't believe me and I don't remember d-doing what Harry says I did. I _know _I wouldn't do that to you, Ron. I know it!"

"Obliviate me then!" and he threw his hands up a little, desperate to end this conversation and get away from her. And then it hit him. How she _could _have lost her own memory...

His lips parted as he considered the likelihood of such a scenario. And he desperately wished that it wasn't nearly as likely as he now dreaded that it was.

He stepped backwards, and she seemed too lost to follow him. Lungs expanding too much with each frightened breath, he finally tore his eyes away from her yet again and walked away. He felt her eyes on his back, scorching through thin cotton, like one of those bloody muggle x-ray machines his dad had once explained to him. He imagined she could see each beat of his unstable heart through skin and bone.

He reached his compartment and yanked the door open, stepping inside and out of her hopeless line of sight. As he closed the door again, he pressed his back against it and froze, staring down at Harry.

"What if she... obliviated herself?" Ron breathed.

Harry stared up at him, and it was clear that he'd already come to the same conclusion.

"Yeah," Harry said, roughly.

Ron nodded and finally moved to take his seat again, across from Harry, knees bouncing with nerves as he thought it all through again.

Damn her. This wasn't fair. So she'd taken away her own memories and left him here alone? _She'd_ done this. She deserved to remember it, as much as he did. But would he ever really know the truth? What she'd done... or hadn't done? It seemed too likely not to be possible, that she could have erased her own memory, that she could have...

...felt guilty?

God, but the way she'd spoken to him those weeks ago, the things she'd said. She'd _meant _them. So why feel guilt for something she'd needed him to hear? She didn't want him. She'd seen who he was, deep down, more clearly than she had ever before, he supposed. And she hadn't liked what she'd found.

And now he was here, on a bleeding train to Scotland, with the girl he _still _loved crying over a past she couldn't remember ever having.

From the outside, he was sure this situation would win some kind of award for being The Most Fucked Up.

No solution? Right, it wasn't even worth saying 'no solution.' This was beyond 'no solution.' This was completely, one hundred percent, on the other side of hopeless.

Well, sod it all. He was going to live. Though he'd felt a weighty sentence rained down on him three weeks ago, he was going back to _school_, which surely meant he had intentions of life beyond the next few days or weeks or months. Some part of him wanted to press on. Fine. He'd give up the rest of himself to that one, small part.

And see what would come.

* * *

><p><em>Darling, now, to be on the other side must be tough<br>But you've gotta take it in your stride  
>Tomorrow's news is yesterday's nevermind<br>_

_I can see myself old, when they told me I would forget  
>When they told me I'd understand<br>_

_Try to make sense of it all_


	4. Another Unfinished Story, Part 1

_**A/N: **Ha! Awkward timing, posting mega-angst on Valentine's Day! Well, wherever you are, I hope your day is going better than Ron's, in this story! :D_

_As aforementioned, **this story will update every Tuesday**. This is so that I can be on a regiment that works for my schedule and also allows me to stay two (or eight) steps ahead of this plot, so I won't leave you all hanging when I inevitably end up busy for a few weeks, unable to write. At the moment, I'm nearly ten parts deep into this thing, so my plan is going swimmingly!  
><em>

_Companion track:  
>The Joy Formidable, "Anemone" -<br>http : / / www . youtube . com / watch?v=ZGduOyDz2sI [remove spaces]_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two - Another Unfinished Story, Part One<strong>

_**3 weeks earlier...**_

They sat by the lake, Ron's faded jeans rolled up to the knees, his freckled feet dangling down into the cool water as the sun moved low in the sky, reflecting gold and orange off the surface of the water. His ruffled, shaggy hair blew furiously in a fresh breeze, tickling Harry's neck. He'd been buried against Harry for what could have been hours, head atop Harry's shoulder. And it seemed, only today, that Ron's overly tall form, a skeleton which had once seemed safe and protective in its towering height, had suddenly shifted to a different type of overgrown, like a neglected field of rough, country grass.

Harry's hand smoothed down the thin, cotton sleeve of Ron's white t-shirt, squeezing lightly as Ron's body tensed against Harry's side with his next shaky breath.

Harry felt the ghost of all of the tears he'd cried today, echoing out around him and making his head pound lightly, and Ron shuddered against him again. Harry wondered how it must feel for _Ron_, the weight of being physically unable to cry any longer, eyes finally dry but aching with a much more prominent reflection of all that had happened.

There was a small part of Harry that wanted to tell Ron that everything was going to be alright. But a much more nagging, insistent part of him was too doubtful that it really would be. And he remained silent, turning his head left to rest his chin gently on top of Ron's head. But as the wind around them settled, still and warm, Ron sniffed thickly and removed his left arm from his own torso, where it had been tightly wrapped inward, across his stomach... and he wiped his wrist across his cheeks, heaving as steady a breath as he could manage and knocking against Harry to signify his desire to move away.

Harry dropped his arm from around Ron's shoulders and sat up straight, allowing him room to do the same. But, as Ron pulled himself upright, his spine curved and he slouched forward, staring down into the glowing water of the lake.

"Still feels like I'm dreaming," he said quietly, swinging a foot gently through the water, rippling it without making a splash.

"I know," Harry said, because it had felt the same way to him, like if they only went to sleep, they'd wake up tomorrow and it would all be over. He was familiar with this feeling, as the end of the war had brought so much sadness and need for healing. And just as they'd done that, Ron had been tossed back into those depths from which he'd only recently emerged…

"Reckon we need to go inside?" Ron asked, blandly, and Harry couldn't tell what he wanted to do, and if going inside to face his family was going to be easier at this moment or better left for later, dragged out until the last possible moment...

"If you want," Harry said softly, looking sideways at Ron's pale profile. And anger boiled as he considered what she'd done, for the millionth time.

Harry had been too busy with his own life. Maybe he'd missed the signs. But they had seemed so perfectly happy! And Hermione... to say the things she did. It was aggressive and untrue... and bleeding uncalled for...

But that's when the anger turned to that sting of reality. She knew Ron too well. She knew he'd fight to fix things if she wasn't honest with him. So she'd _been _honest, at last. Brutally. But only after utterly betraying him, lying and deceiving him. And truthfully, Harry felt just as betrayed. He wanted her to suffer just a little bit for hurting Ron like this. Was that really so wrong?

Harry was startled by Ron's movement then, suddenly, as he'd been so very lost in his own thoughts, absorbed by replaying something that he could not change. It was his way, he supposed, to try and fix things with thoughts, which ultimately could never really fix _this_.

"Let's get it over with," Ron sighed, and he stood, reaching a bony hand back down to help Harry to his feet.

"Thanks," Harry rasped, and together, they turned to make the long walk back up towards the Burrow.

Nothing but the swishing sound of their trouser legs against each other and their shoes through the grass filled the open air, and the sky was growing darker by the moment. But at last, Ron broke the silence with a puffed out breath...

"I don't want to tell them how it happened, alright?" he said, still facing straight forward as Harry glanced left, to view Ron's profile again.

"Alright."

* * *

><p>His mother was smiling. It wasn't a bad thing, he supposed. Only he didn't want to be the one to wipe that smile away. But as soon as she'd had a proper look at him, he didn't have to say a word.<p>

"Ron, what is it? What's wrong?" and she bustled up to him, inspecting him for signs of damage.

"M'fine," he muttered, but he could feel Harry's eyes on him and he knew he might as well rip off the bandage. If he was here now to mope about, his mother _had _to have some idea what he was moping for, or else he'd be questioned every single day and drive her mental in the process. "I'm just... I..."

The words stuck in his throat. They made it too real. Much too real. Merlin, if he could only hold his breath and will them not to be true... But he had to face them, like he had to face waking up every morning now. Like he was going to have to face eating at the times when he was probably supposed to, to go on living...

"Hermione's split up with me," he breathed out, and his mother's eyebrows shot up as she gasped.

"No, she hasn't!"

"Yeah, she has," he countered, already needing to get away. "It's... not something I particularly fancy talking about... right now. But she has. And it's over."

"Ron!" she gasped again. "If this is some kind of a joke-"

"Why would I joke about this?" He didn't want to sound as angry as he did, but he was too vulnerable and unpredictable. "Mum, please," he continued. "I'm going up to bed. Please, just give me a while..."

"What's going on?" and Ron looked up, startled, as his father entered the kitchen, carrying an empty cup in one hand and an Evening Prophet in the other.

"Oh, Arthur! Ron's just told me Hermione's split up with him!" his mother cried, and Ron winced, hearing those aching words from her lips.

"Dad, I'm going up to bed," Ron said, begging his father with his own creased forehead and sparkling eyes.

"Yes, of course," his father said, at last, so quietly he might have been talking to a St. Mungo's patient.

But Ron could do nothing but nod and back out of the room, turning to head upstairs. He could feel Harry following him, and it was exactly what he needed, comfort in knowing he was not alone, but that he wouldn't be expected to say anything, or to _feel _anything he didn't think he was ready to feel. Whatever he would have to do to 'get over' this… well, right now, he couldn't see it. It was too far away, too theoretical.

When, finally, they'd reached Ron's bedroom, he stripped off his jeans and crawled into his bed, trying not to pick up on the smell of her skin, thickly interwoven with the threads of his blanket... He tried not to feel a shadow of that compression of her body on the bed next to his...

And at last, head pounding, he fell off into a light sleep, watched over by Harry, who Ron felt crawling up the bed to join him, sitting against the headboard, on top of Ron's blanket, his body providing a barrier between Ron's broken heart and the rest of the world outside that awaited him...

* * *

><p>He should have known Ginny would dig into this further. Of course, she'd heard from her parents what had happened. And by the time Harry quietly slipped out of Ron's room at half midnight, Ginny was chewing her lip in the tiny sitting room across the hall from the loo, by lantern light.<p>

"Harry!" she hissed, and Harry moved into the room quietly. "What's happened?"

Harry sighed out a deep breath and shook his head once. She stood, face to face with him, and he watched as she studied his eyes for some kind of sign.

"Mum said she didn't know why, but that Ron and Hermione had split up?" Her breasts heaved beneath her nightdress, and Harry was momentarily distracted... "Is that true? Please, Harry, tell me it isn't true!"

And Harry was back where he'd been before, almost too stunned to admit it.

"Yeah, it's true," he whispered, at last.

Ginny clamped her eyes shut and let out such a sad little sound. Harry took her hand as she opened her eyes again.

"Harry, tell me why. Tell me what happened!"

But he couldn't tell her. It wasn't his place to tell her.

"Ron should be the one to decide who to tell, and when. I'm sorry, Gin. He's really..." but there were no words, exactly, to describe what Ron was feeling right now.

"Do you want me to go and talk to Hermione? I've been thinking of it all night and-"

"No," Harry cut her off, firmly, and by the way his tone had shifted from sad and regretful to angry and solid, he was sure Ginny now had some idea of what had happened. At least, who had been at fault...

"Harry..." she began, slowly, "I know you can't tell me. I understand why you won't. And I respect that. You're too good to him. But... will you just tell me..."

Harry was afraid, before she even asked, that he would not be able to sustain this conversation for long, wherever it was leading. He found it difficult even to _think _her name, much less have to say it aloud to Ginny, right now...

"If she hadn't done anything wrong," Ginny continued, "you'd be with her, too. You'd be sorry for both of them. They're... like you're siblings or something. I know how close the three of you were."

Harry nodded, reminiscing off to places he probably shouldn't. He didn't want to dwell, to remember the past muddled up with the present. Because the past looked so much more beautiful now in comparison to what had transpired, what had brought them here at last. Some kind of ill-fitting culmination of years of perfect friendship... It was too devastating to risk thinking about for long...

"She's done something wrong, to hurt him, hasn't she," Ginny concluded, and Harry could do nothing but look sadly into her eyes, confirming the truth. "And you don't want me to see her?"

"No," Harry admitted, because he'd rather pretend she didn't exist, at the moment, to be honest.

Ginny nodded and said no more, and he thanked her silently for being so understanding, one of the things he'd always loved so much about her. Before long, they'd made their way to the couch and she'd drifted off to sleep, head resting on top of Harry's shoulder as he stared off into the distance, trying not to imagine what tomorrow would look like. Or the next day. Or the day after that...

* * *

><p>Ron sat on the edge of his bed. He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting here. Hours ago, his mother had brought a tray of breakfast up to him and said nothing. But the way she'd looked at him, like someone on their deathbed, with no possible way to recover... It was depressing. And somehow too true, in a way, to look directly at.<p>

He'd eaten what little he could stomach, and was now stuck somewhere between a dream and a memory. They were merging now, in a colourful way that didn't quite make sense. He knew that, eventually, they'd separate again, and he'd see everything more clearly. But for now, he was content with this place, to feel comfort in what he'd had, so recently, and not to have to _know_, with that agonizing blow that lingered just out of reach, that it was gone forever.

"Ron?" Ginny said softly, and Ron looked up, having not even realised she'd been standing there, in his open doorway.

He nodded up at her and turned back to face the window again as she clearly took his dismissal to mean she could enter. She sat far away from him, on the edge of the bed.

"Mum said you didn't want to talk about it," Ginny began, slowly, and Ron didn't bother with a nod. She wasn't asking him. "But, Ron... I'm her friend."

Ron sucked in a sharp breath, unprepared for this direction.

"Listen, I just..." Ginny tried, "I want to know if I need to be hacked off with her, or if I need to send her nasty howlers or... something..." and Ron looked over to see her attempting a smile. He had to thank her, in some ways, for trying to make a joke. After all, he'd spent his life crafting ways to cheer people up by deflecting their sorrow through a well-timed bit of humour.

"It's okay, Gin," he said, lightly. He had no idea _what _was okay, exactly, only that it had seemed the proper thing to say at the time...

But he felt his sisters' eyes on him as he turned his own eyes back to the bright sun, streaking in through the glass across from him.

He supposed, in a way, it might be nice to tell her. Ginny'd always been a bit of a brat to him, but not when it had really counted. She was a good person, someone he could rely on and trust. And he needed all the honesty that he could get, at the moment...

"She's... found somebody else," he said, words slipping softly free.

He could feel the air shift as Ginny went from sad and curious to angry and offended.

"What?" she hissed. "That's not possible."

He licked his lips and closed his eyes briefly before rolling his shoulders to relax his tense back muscles.

"Of course it is, Ginny," he said, opening his eyes again and turning to look at his sister. "She's brilliant and-"

"No, not like that!" Ginny shouted. "She _belongs _with you! You've always..."

She fished for something more to say, lips parted as her eyes darted with alarm. She couldn't believe it, just like he hadn't been able to. Things _had _seemed perfect, hadn't they. Well, perhaps he'd been blinded. But he'd save that kind of thought for another day...

"Well, not anymore," he said, stiffening his muscles again as he watched his sister boggling at him.

"Just like that?" she shouted, and Ron knew she wasn't trying to upset him, but it was starting to grate on him, the way she was carrying on when he craved silence, for once in his life. "Why aren't you trying to get her back?" and he felt a rip through his chest that he could no longer ignore. She didn't understand... "I don't-" she began, but he cut her off.

"She was with him when we were still together!" He hadn't meant to shout so forcefully either, and he actually winced at his own volume.

Ginny breathed in shallow bursts, scanning his room, looking so very lost. After a moment, she stood, pacing the rug in front of Ron's bed as he watched her from his position still slouched over the edge...

"No," Ginny whispered. "No, that's... no. She wouldn't. Ever."

"Yeah, I know she wouldn't," Ron heard himself agreeing, because he _had _known it. As well as he'd known that the sun would rise and set again, or that History of Magic would be dull and boring... or that the Cannons would lose another game...

Ginny blinked down at him.

"Then... I'm not following..."

"She _wouldn't_," Ron breathed. "But she _has_. And that's the truth. There's nothing... we can do about it, is there."

Ginny shook her head, breathing out through her nose.

"You've missed something," she stated, firmly.

But he hadn't, had he. He knew that...

He shook his head back up at his sister, trying and failing, yet again, to swallow the lump building up in his throat...

"I even checked," he said, "to be sure it was _really _her... who was... cheating. I saw her clearly, when she was..." He paused as he choked on every option he could come up with for a word to end that sentence. It was useless, so he moved on... "But you never know... And after the war, we were really suspicious. We came up with a code word, just to be sure. Even Harry didn't know it. I asked her for it and she gave it to me."

He swallowed again, and tried to ignore the growing ache behind his eyes, signifying that though he thought he'd never be able to produce another tear after all he'd cried yesterday, he might just be on the verge again now...

"Wait. But why would she do that?" Ginny demanded. "Did she... _want _to get caught? Why would she tell you the word after she _knew _you'd already caught her... cheating?"

Right. Because he'd discovered just how good of a liar _he _could be, hadn't he...

"Because I asked for it before she knew I'd seen her," he admitted. "I... did a pretty good job of pretending not to know, until she'd said the word."

Ginny gawked at him, hands shaking lightly at her sides.

"There must be something else!" she shouted.

"There's nothing else, Ginny!" he shouted back, pleading with her to believe him. "I would know. It wasn't just about someone else. The things she said to me... she was through with me long before I ever caught her with... him."

And it was no longer any use trying to hold back his tears. Ginny melted down to sit next to him again as he ducked his head, squinting as his eyes burned furiously. He felt her trembling hand against his back, fingers fanning out. But though she was there with him, he felt completely alone, all of a sudden...

And he knew, as much as it hurt, that he had to get used to that feeling.

* * *

><p><em>Twilight, be my torch<br>Burn a hole in these hungry eyes_

_Make the secrets easy_

_It's a luckless game and a loveless fortune  
>You burn away the white sun, gone<br>I've predicted this_

_Now the secret's on you_


	5. Another Unfinished Story, Part 2

_Companion track:  
>The Joy Formidable, "Austere" -<br>http : / / www . youtube . com / watch?v=MTx3rYj_5FU [remove spaces]_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two - Another Unfinished Story, Part Two<strong>

_**Tuesday, September 1st...**_

She could see them, Harry and Ron, out of the corner of her eye, sitting at the opposite end of the Gryffindor table. The crowd seemed so much less dense this year, though she was sure it was only her own way of looking at things, now that she was older. The first year students seemed so tiny, she could hardly believe she was once one of them... and that she could recall, so very clearly, what that year had been like.

As the feast progressed, Ron turned to face the head table, slouching sideways over rough wood and empty plates, onto his left elbow. That flash of red, as he turned his head, sliced through her almost soothingly, and she turned her own head right, to study him while he could not see her. Unrestricted, she studied the curve of his neck, eyes traveling down through thick ginger hair, the bones of his wrist, and down his scarred and freckled left arm. It was almost unfair, that she could draw, with eyes closed, a map of all of his scars, even the ones he probably didn't know she'd seen.

And that's when it occurred to her... what _had _she seen, that she'd never remember? Three weeks ago, Harry had said - that's when she'd split up with Ron. So that had given them, what? Over three months? She'd been with Ron for three months and she couldn't remember a sodding day of it? !

She _knew _she'd been happy, almost as if some distant shadow of that feeling alone was buried so deeply within her that it could not be erased by a mere obliviate. And it was so absurd and _wrong _to think that she'd give up on what she'd wanted since... oh, she couldn't even place the day, if there'd ever even been one in particular, on which she'd fallen for him to begin with.

And then, she was hit with another realisation. The night they'd fallen asleep together, in Ron's bed at the Burrow - the last night she could remember before waking up yesterday morning - she'd wrapped her arm around his waist, underneath his thin t-shirt, and he'd twisted his fingers into her hair... and she'd known that they weren't about to take things slowly. If they hadn't been so exhausted, she probably would have-

She tore her gaze away from Ron's back and blinked rapidly down at her still-full plate of food, allowing bits of her hair to fall across her face, protecting her from prying eyes. She squinted until she could no longer keep her eyes open. The sudden uproar of hundreds of cheering students surrounded her but did not really reach her. But the shuffling of robes and new shoes reawakened her to her place in the middle of the Great Hall, and she sniffed, wiping her sleeve across her face before acting against her own better judgment and glancing right again... towards the emptiness left behind. Ron and Harry had long since gone, and the hall was nearly deserted by the time she'd pushed back from the table and lifted her head to take her position in front of a straggling group of students, to direct them towards their dormitories...

* * *

><p>She shouldn't be here. She was far too aware of that. But she wasn't about to go through a sleepless, torturous night without trying again.<p>

She stood in the middle of the seventh year boys' dormitory. Fortunately, it was empty. Though she could only stand, heart pounding, with the hope that Harry or Ron, or hopefully _both _of them, would be the first to make their way up. She'd actually been shocked with how simple it had been to make her way out of the common room and upstairs without being seen. Fate was either on her side or about to play a very cruel joke on her. Funny, she couldn't bring herself to admit to how likely the second scenario really was, even now that one of the worst jokes she could imagine might have already been played on her.

She heaved out a weighty sigh, and the door opened.

She froze. Harry materialized on the other side of the door, rubbing at his wet hair with a light blue towel. And then, as he stepped through the doorway, he spotted her.

"What the hell..."

"Harry, I have to talk to you," she pressed forward, standing her ground as Harry glanced wildly back out into the hallway before quickly shutting the door, closing them inside the dormitory together.

"I told you everything!" he whispered, harshly. "Really, Hermione, you have to go."

"Stop protecting him! We have to figure this out, and I don't think you quite understand what I'm going through-"

"I don't?" Harry hissed. "Hermione! I told you what you did! I know it's impossible right now for you to accept it, but you have to go! I don't think _you _quite understand how badly you hurt _him_..."

"So, help me! Help me fix this!" she begged, stepping closer.

Harry shook his head in what could only be perceived as disbelief... mingled with some vague semblance of regret.

"Hermione, we can't fix anything. I told you that," he sighed. "You _know _I don't want it this way. But-"

"Tell me exactly what I did, Harry," she interrupted, firmly. "Everything. Details."

His eyes widened broadly, and he dropped his towel with a light thud, to the floor.

"You don't want me to do that."

But she did. In fact, even more so now that he'd tried to prevent it. Whatever it was, he _knew _it, and he was going to tell her or she wouldn't leave this room.

"I'm staying, until you tell me _exactly _what happened," she insisted, though fear was rising transparently through her less than confident tone of voice. She needed to know. But she was terrified of it, at the same time.

He studied her, eyes illuminated through his glasses by the lanterns on every bedside table. She silently pleaded with him, searching him for truth, and for acceptance. Because she needed a friend, just one, and she hoped with all she had that it might just be him. Right now.

Slowly, he nodded, looking down at the scuffed dormitory floor as he brushed past her to sit on the edge of his bed. She joined him, finally, inches apart as his eyes darted, planning his direction, she supposed, through these awkward, unfamiliar places.

"He told me..." Harry began, voice low and thick, "that he saw you kissing this bloke. You were standing up against a wall. At first, Ron didn't think it was really you. But he realised, later, that it was a kind of denial, because he would never mistake you for someone else. He knew you far too well. Or at least he thought he did."

Hermione tensed beside Harry, bracing herself for the rest.

"And... as soon as he'd accepted it, that's when he saw what you were really doing. You had... your leg around this bloke's waist, and he had a hand up your skirt and..."

Her chest constricted and she didn't think she'd be able to breathe...

"...you sh-shagged him..."

Hermione gripped the edge of Harry's bed, nails digging sharply into his quilt. And she bit her lip until she was sure she'd bleed...

"...not twenty metres from where Ron was standing. He watched, saw enough to know it was over between you. He hid, so damn close to you, and he waited for it to be over. You didn't see him there, which made it much easier for him to confront you later. You didn't know he'd already caught you."

She tried to breathe through her mouth, tried to tense her body enough to stay upright... and at last, with Harry's eyes on his own feet, she straightened her back and stared, unblinking, at his profile...

"I didn't do it."

But Harry snapped, eyes locking onto hers. And she felt, for the first time, genuinely small, like all the world could tower above her and punish her with only a stare.

"Yes, you did," Harry said, tone far too level and direct. "I watched Ron's fucking memory! I can't even tell you how many times."

"You... what? !" Panic wafted through her, and she didn't know where to direct it. At this _force_, whatever she could call it, for giving her nothing with which to fight back. No memories to show them in return. At Ron, for showing something so private and personal to Harry. And then, cycling back, at herself, for being so close to protective, of a memory she _knew _had to be fake!

"Hermione, he _had _to show me. God! He was falling apart! I found him on the tile next to the showers about to choke himself crying!" Harry bellowed. "And-And you! You _laughed _with this other bloke; you mustn't have thought Ron would catch you... and-and I think you thought you could get away with it! I don't know how much longer you would have lied to him, if he hadn't caught you. You'd been with this bloke before; it was so obvious! And not just once or twice! How much could you really spit in Ron's face, shagging a qualified _Auror _while you thought Ron was off on a bloody training mission-"

"Stop, _please_!" Hermione begged, sobbing now, tears running freely down her blotchy face.

Harry breathed hotly through his nose and stood, pacing as he tried to find something to do with his hands - running them through his hair, across the back of his neck, extending his fingers before clenching his hands into tightly wound fists...

"If you want to help, _leave_, before he comes-" but Harry was cut off abruptly by the dormitory door opening to reveal...

Ron, in pyjama trousers and a shirt that was both much too short for him and far too tight...

Hermione shuddered and tried to look away from him as he glared daggers across the room at her.

"What is _she _doing here?" Ron demanded, eyes on Hermione all the time, even as he directed his inquiry towards Harry.

"She was just leaving," Harry said, turning his own version of Ron's angry glare down on Hermione. But she could see that flicker in his eyes, the one that said how sorry he was, how much he wished things could be different. And as much as she wanted to believe him, it wasn't enough.

"I'll leave when I'm ready, and I still have a few things to s-" she began, but Ron cut her off...

"Come find me when she's gone," he very nearly spat at Harry, turning his back on the room and leaving the way he'd come, wet hair clinging to his skin and droplets of water still carving their paths down the curves of his neck and arms.

Hermione broke into fitful sobs as Ron's retreating back vanished, and she covered her face with her hands, hunched over her own body for protection as Harry approached her.

"Hermione," he said, far too gently, and his suddenly kind tone of voice sent her that much further over the edge. "We can get your memories back! And then you won't have to live like this. You'll know the truth and you'll be able to really see what happened. You'll know exactly why you did what you did..."

She looked up through tear-thickened eyelashes, studying Harry's real attempts to solve this, the only way that he knew how. But she knew the truth, what she really feared the most, now that she was presented with the idea of regaining what she'd lost...

"What if I don't _want _them back?" she whispered.

Harry's face fell, and she was sure he understood _why_.

He sat next to her again, shifting the mattress with his weight, and they disappeared into their own thoughts, until she could hear the halls outside fill with the sounds of approaching dormmates. And, at last, she stood, wiping at her eyes one last time.

With nothing remaining to say, she left Harry alone, traveling the lonely course back to her side of Gryffindor tower, to that internal prison she wasn't sure if she wanted to escape... the one in which perhaps, just _perhaps_, she hadn't done anything wrong at all. And where one day, they might see it, too.

* * *

><p>Ron had heard more than enough. Of course he'd come here, to lurk outside the dormitory door. He wanted to hate her more than anything, but it seemed his body and his heart dragged him back into the fire at every possible opportunity. And it didn't matter how much it hurt - his ability to withstand her tears still fell short of that hurt. And he tortured himself by listening, to their words and her pain and the way she really, truly didn't <em>know<em>.

He was sure of it now, that she couldn't remember. That she hadn't been lying at all. And it hurt almost as much as what she'd _done _to begin with.

"What if I don't _want _them back?" he heard her whisper, his eyes now closed, spine aligned and flat with the stone wall behind him. If he leaned left, just a few inches, they'd see him. What would it change for them to know he hadn't really gone away after all? What would every moment and every choice really change? He could run back into that room, he absolutely could. He could tell her it would be alright and they'd work it out.

But it was a lie. They wouldn't. And even though she didn't know it, he did. And wasn't it his job to protect his own heart, to guard it now with all he had? Not to mention hers...

Holding his breath against a sob, he pushed away from the wall, silence engulfing them too thickly. And he couldn't let himself be seen. A group of fifth and sixth year boys made their way up the spiral staircase, laughing at some crude joke, and he slipped into the shadows to his right, ducking to miss hitting his head on the door frame as he disappeared into the loo around the corner.

But it wasn't long at all before Harry had found him, green eyes shining up through his jet black fringe.

"She's gone," Harry said, simply. And Ron nodded, following Harry back to their room without a word.

* * *

><p><em>There's mischief to turn, your ship to send off<em>

_I'd rescue you now, but in velvet you'll drown and dance again_

_Lay by my side  
>You've been left here, so you'll make no sound<em>

_Hey, last words, don't let me down  
>You're just another unfinished story now<em>

* * *

><p><em><strong><strong>AN: ****I know I've had some comments about Ron being weak in this story or not being angry enough. But here's the thing... He's had three weeks to himself to be angry. And then suddenly, he finds out Hermione can't remember a thing about what happened and that she is still very much in love with him. So Ron knows he can't be with her because of what she did before, but then he's forced to see her now, as if it never happened, as if she's a completely different Hermione, from a parallel universe or something. It would make him crazy, yeah? So he's struggling with a lot of insane things, which muddles down his anger. _

_I hope that makes some sense and clears up why I have him sort of flipping between upset and tormented to bitter and snappy. As usual, thanks so much for reading! You are all awesome x  
><em>


	6. Another Unfinished Story, Part 3

**_A/N:_ **_Guys! I'm really sorry for my lack of an update last week! A pretty important personal bit of business was taking place and I was unable to get to a computer. However, I am updating twice this week to catch us back up. Accept my olive branch? :)_

_Companion track:  
>The Joy Formidable, "Ostrich" -<br>http : / / www . youtube . com / watch?v=TdimkVniPbQ [remove spaces]_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two - Another Unfinished Story, Part Three<strong>

_**Wednesday, September 2nd...**_

Ron was pacing.

He'd hardly slept and was now expected to go to classes... _with her_? Fuck.

Okay, so yes, he'd thought it all through. He'd considered what it would be like to be here with her. He'd even known, on some level, that he craved the torture of seeing her every day. That in some small way, it had been his own subconscious desire for self destruction that had led him to return to Hogwarts, even after what she'd done.

But this. It was so very different than what he'd signed up for. If he'd known that she wouldn't be able to remember breaking his heart...

He felt Harry's eyes on him, and he knew they had to go. Everyone else had left the dormitory long ago, towards the Great Hall for breakfast. Sod breakfast, he thought. And he found himself pausing, mid-pace, to consider his own shockingly angry sneer towards food.

He let out a short laugh through his nose, and Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Bloody hell, I don't know," Ron breathed, shrugging.

Harry stepped closer, but Ron tensed up all over again as he replayed the scene he'd eavesdropped on from the night before.

He let out a thick, frustrated breath, and Harry gave him a look of such sadness and pity that Ron felt his blood boil.

"For fuck's sake, Harry! I shagged her! And she doesn't sodding remember!" He knew he was at a volume that could possibly be overheard by most of the dormitory, but it was too late to stop  
>himself from shouting once he'd worked himself up to it.<p>

Harry winced and looked away, and Ron had the distinct impression that it was actually _still _somehow awkward for Harry to address the fact that Ron and Hermione had been shagging each other over the course of the summer. It might have been funny, that Harry could still be slightly embarrassed to have to discuss this... blimey, after the things he'd seen, after that sodding memory Ron had shown him... how many times?

But it wasn't going to be easy to find the humour in just anything today. Or tomorrow. Or possibly next month... or ten years from now...

Ron had to face things he'd just as soon not ever have to face. But that was how it had to go, wasn't it. So was he ready? Maybe. He could tell himself that he was, and that was about the best he would be able to do, under the circumstances. And maybe that wasn't actually so bad, after all...

"I'm sorry," Ron sighed, "let's go."

But Harry took Ron's wrist as he made to leave the room.

"You really believe it now, what she says?"

"I reckon I have to, yeah," Ron admitted. And, with a nod, Harry released Ron's wrist and led the way out of their dormitory.

* * *

><p>Her eyes burned from a combination of crying far too much and not having slept at all. When he entered the room, her temperature rose, and she was forced to lean over her own desk, hair waterfalling down either side of her face to block her view of him. She knew how to ignore him. She'd had plenty of practice, after all. But the question always was... did she <em>want <em>to ignore him? Even when she had, over the years, it had never been what she truly wanted. It had been, in some ways, a petty, slightly immature way to get back at him for the maddening things he'd done to her. But now, in this particular case, it was _her _who had done something terrible, and probably unforgivable, to him.

How many times had they rowed and been alright? She could hardly count. And it was so easy and familiar to assume this time would be just like all the others. But she knew, deep down, that it wouldn't. Not unless she could prove them wrong.

Chewing lightly on the end of her quill, she mulled over ways in which she could proceed, hardly listening to the lecture. And it wasn't until she was called upon to recite text from her book that she snapped out of her own head and put a strong effort into concentrating and forgetting Ron altogether.

She could do that. She could pretend it was just another row. If it got her through the days.

* * *

><p>That night, with everyone down in the common room chatting, Ron retreated upstairs to his empty dormitory to throw things and grumble whilst he tried to get himself into the mindset he needed to be in to even attempt to toss a half-hearted effort towards his homework.<p>

Harry entered the room too soon, and Ron looked up from where he'd been sitting on the edge of his bed, ripping up an innocent piece of blank parchment.

"Started that essay yet?" Harry asked, and Ron tried not to be annoyed with the fact that Harry was so very obviously trying to sound casual.

"Nah," he grunted, tearing at the tiny shreds of parchment that remained in his hands.

Harry plopped heavily down onto the bed to Ron's right, and Ron felt his stomach twist again, though he tried so desperately to push that feeling away.

It was easier, in some ways, to be alone, than to be here with Harry... given what had happened since yesterday. But then again, he could almost call up the old times, the way things had been before... It wasn't something that could last, trapped between this side of disaster and the years that had come before. But as silence carried now, he longed for that escape, and he feared Harry wouldn't give that to him, after the way Ron had reacted to Harry's first attempt...

But Harry _didn't_ try to talk about anything important. He let his slightly false sounding tone take over and build until it had turned into something real and solid and safe, something Ron could hold onto. And he did, as long as he still could...

* * *

><p><em><strong>Saturday, September 5th...<strong>_

The week had been rough, though decidedly less rough than Ron had feared. He was now stomping his way across Hogwarts grounds with Harry to meet up with Ritchie, who had taken over as Quidditch captain in the very short time that the house teams had remained active, during the past school year, while the war was at its height.

Ritchie was just emerging from his afternoon Herbology lesson, and he greeted Ron and Harry with a welcoming smile.

"Hiya," he said as he approached them, now nearly Ron's height, with a form almost as lanky and bony. The only jarring difference was Ritchie's thick and curly, jet black hair. "I hoped I'd see you two soon!"

"Hey, Ritchie, how've you been?" Harry asked, smiling up at Ritchie.

"Pretty well, actually," Ritchie said, lightly.

"We came by about Quidditch trials," Ron said. "We wanted you to add us to your list for next Saturday-"

Ritchie snorted with laughter.

"You want me to try you two out?" he asked, shaking his head in disbelief. "You must be joking."

"Oi! We weren't _that _shit," Ron said, feigning offense, though he nudged Harry hard in the ribs. After all, Ron had known that no one in their right mind was going to ask Harry to try out if he wanted to play for Gryffindor in his final year.

"If you two didn't sign up with the team this year, I would have probably sent a few bludgers your way, accidentally, during our first game" Ritchie teased. "Harry, you should resume your place as team captain-"

"No," Harry cut in, shaking his head, "you don't get to step down just because I'm back!"

Ritchie grinned and shrugged, clearly at least somewhat relieved for a chance to really lead his team this year, as opposed to the mess of the year before...

"Besides," Harry added, "I don't particularly fancy it just now."

"Yeah?" Ritchie asked. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. And anyway, we're coming to tryouts next Saturday. It's only fair," Harry added, and Ron paused to glare, affronted, down at Harry, before Ritchie repositioned his bag on his shoulder and laughed.

"Well, alright then," he said, "but you know you've got the spots already. It's just because you've asked so nicely..."

Ron rolled his eyes.

"Harry, you and your stupid integrity are going to drag me out of bed early on Saturday, aren't you. Cheers, mate."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Saturday, September 12th...<strong>_

She'd managed to avoid him. Completely. While she'd been formulating.

She found, just now, that she could think best when she didn't have to see him actively trying _not _to lay eyes on her... or when she didn't have to be tortured by half of one of his bare hipbones poking out the top of his jeans when he forgot to wear a belt, and-

She cleared her throat loudly and slammed her book shut, dust flying around her frizzy head as Madame Pince looked sternly up over the top of her spectacles from her position at the library front desk...

At the sudden sound of word 'Quidditch', Hermione turned her head to watch as two fifth year girls giggled their way out of the library. Hermione bit her lip as she considered...

It _was _Quidditch today, wasn't it. Quidditch trials, actually...

She shook her head furiously and shoved her quills and ink and stacks of books back into her bag with a frustrated groan. She was sure they'd be there, Harry and Ron. They'd be cheering on the new recruits, even if they weren't planning to play this year. And then there was an even higher likelihood that they _were _playing, and that they'd be up in the stands as senior team members, awaiting the selection of new arrivals...

Or, much less likely, but still somehow plausible... what if they were trying out? To be fair, _naturally_. And she knew Harry too well, of course...

She brushed her messy hair away from her eyes and stood, shouldering her bag and ducking her head as she moved out of the library and through the halls. She paused at a long strip of windows, halfway down the east corridor on the fourth floor.

"Don't do it," she muttered to herself, as she looked out over the mist-covered grounds. "You have to _plan _this out..."

But the idea of planning before acting was rapidly paling in comparison to the rare opportunity of watching him from so far away, with too much distraction for him to notice...

* * *

><p>He stood tall at the edge of the field, mist rising and swooshing about like some ghost of an ocean, rippling and swirling with a breeze he hardly felt. His head of overgrown ginger hair stood out in brilliant, noticeable contrast to the gloomy, almost eerily overcast day.<p>

He watched as a small crowd of onlookers dispersed, peppering out across the bleachers. And then, the first batch of prospective players was in the air.

Ron watched them silently for quite some time, caught up in flashes of red and gold, zooming high above. For a moment, his ears burned and a shiver rolled down his spine, but he ignored it as Harry stepped up to his right, head tilted back, eyes squinted slightly behind his glasses.

"Ah, we're up," Harry said, after a moment, as he turned towards Ron.

Ritchie was swooping down, and the first batch of tryouts was filling the field again.

Ron readjusted his knee pads, hiked up his trousers a few inches from where they'd dangerously slipped, and covered his head with his helmet, boot tips digging into the dirt as he pushed off into the air.

And that's when he saw her, high up at the top, her hair looking exceptionally wild and static. A new chill rippled down his spine with increased intensity, and he suddenly knew why he'd felt it before. Because she'd arrived.

And the nerves beneath his _skin _had known it before the rest of him.

He felt his pulse race as he increased his speed, air growing colder as he climbed higher still. To where it was harder to breathe.

Or maybe it was just her. It had always been, after all.

* * *

><p>She sucked in a sharp breath as he shot up off the ground, his shirt whipping back at the bottom edge of his chest pads to cling to his pale, narrow torso, stuck, with the force of the wind, to his more-than-flat stomach. She couldn't tear her eyes away, and he soon caught sight of her, expression morphing from blank to something she hadn't seen before. But something she didn't like.<p>

She shouldn't have come here! Oh, what was she really here _for_, anyway! There was no point. Not yet. Not before she knew what she was going to do.

But seeing him. His piercing eyes and his fiery hair and...

She choked on a sob and leaned forward, a hot breath spilling from between her lips as she strangled back a squeak. And finally, when she lifted her eyes to the activity high above the field again, she saw him, looking right back at her all over again.

And it wasn't hatred or annoyance or even pity that she saw. She couldn't name it, but it was twisting her stomach into a knot that wasn't entirely the opposite of pleasurable.

And then it was over. He'd looked away once more, blocked a series of attempted goals, and was plummeting to the ground on his broom. She stood and leaned over the railing to watch him dismount, boots dragging through what remained of the low, settling fog before he touched the ground. He ran a leather-gloved hand through his hair and ducked, escaping the field as everyone dispersed.

Her ears were ringing by the time the stands had emptied and fallen silent.

* * *

><p>Everyone had gone. But he remained, pacing the Gryffindor changing tent in his undershirt, knee pads still wrapped over his trousers, tightening them to his thin legs. He rubbed at his knuckles through his fingerless gloves.<p>

And the tent flap opened, directly in front of him.

"Is this how it's going to be, all year?" he asked, dryly.

She blinked at him, and her inability to respond left him too much time to study the redness of her eyes and the way she was forcefully trying to keep her bottom lip from trembling.

"You did r-really well, Ron," she very nearly whispered.

He couldn't force out a thanks, so he looked away until he could find something else to say...

"You need to go."

"I know," she said.

He looked across at her again, confused.

"So, you've come round?" he huffed. "Or do you just _remember _now?"

"No," she breathed. "I just... I shouldn't have come to see you. I should have waited until-"

"Until?" he interrupted. "Until what? There_ isn't_ a what, Hermione!"

She pressed her lips tightly together before speaking again, and he was magnetized closer... step by step.

"Maybe there _can _be, and y-you just haven't seen it yet!"

It was never going to go anywhere. And he suddenly knew how to fix it.

"Wh-What if... I let you see my memory?"

Her eyes widened, so timid and lost, and he took yet another step closer.

"I c-can't, Ron!" she cried. "Please..."

He couldn't really take much more of this. Was he supposed to be able to?

"If you watch it, you'll see it _was _really you, and you'll stop trying to fix what can't be fixed! And bloody hell, I need you to do that!"

She tensed up, and he had the distinct feeling that she was going to give in. If asked, in that moment, he would have had no idea how to explain how he felt. There were far too many things happening, and he was far too muddled and dizzy to even try to figure them out.

She was too close to him.

Her eyes were shining with tears, and he was ripped apart by what she'd done. He couldn't be her _friend_. He wasn't sure if he'd _ever _be able to.

Was he supposed to forgive her? It didn't feel like he was. But oh, how he wished that it did, sometimes...

Like now. A single stride away from her...

He wasn't really going to. Was he?

Or maybe he was...

He closed the gap in less time than it took for him to _think _of a swear word. His still-gloved hand leapt into her hair at the back of her head, knotting curls tightly around his fingers as he dropped his mouth to hers, pulling her body roughly against his own as she gasped and accidentally bit his lip. He backed her swiftly into the only solid wall of the Quidditch tent. His undershirt rode up his slender torso as he compressed her between himself and the wall, and he felt the warmth of her body radiating through her jumper, directly against his skin.

The familiarity was blinding. And somehow, his memories must have faded his past somewhat, because it was as if all he'd felt before of her had been a muted reflection of what was real. He could feel that addiction, the one he'd been craving but resisting, taking over every part of him. He would have been afraid, of what he might do now, but he was in this moment, her soft hands crawling tentatively up his arms, like even though he was kissing her this way, even with her bottom lip between his teeth, she couldn't believe in it completely.

He felt her suck in her stomach, giving him another inch with which to move closer. And he did, automatically, dipping over her as his tongue ran swiftly along her top lip. Her teeth grazed him, and a light switched on inside of him.

His stomach dropped sickeningly and everything was spinning.

Gasping for air, he tore himself away from her and moved several paces backwards, heaving each painful breath and staring back into her shocked eyes.

"Shit!"

He wiped his wrist roughly across his lips and stubbly jaw and turned his back on her, bending to collect his things without bothering to put out the softly glowing lanterns. And as he heard her whispering his name, he slipped through the tent flap without pause, making his purposeful way back up to the castle, leather still restricting the trembling of his hands.

* * *

><p><em>This is better, this is better, you're just a memory now<br>That can move along_

_I won't let this go wrong  
>It's time to believe me<em>

_I guess it's loneliness, your childhood loneliness  
>You can't climb out the window<br>Now they're too hurt inside_

_I guess it's loneliness, your childhood loneliness, goodbye  
>And decide it's ahead or behind<em>

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN Part 2:** Now. In case you see Ron's flash decision here as a weakness, it is meant as a turning point. You will see as the story continues in the next chapter, how it actually helps him, taking a step back, to take a few forward. I hope you all enjoyed this installment! Will post the next before the week is out :)_


	7. Is That the Long Goodbye?, Part 1

_**A/N: **Oh. My. Fucking-_

_Um. The best thing ever happened last night._

_**napchic has arted me**. She has illustrated the kiss at the end of the previous chapter...  
><em>

_And it will blow your mind. It is the most gorgeous piece of work..._

_**PLEASE check it out here:  
>http :  / napchic . net / art / Thieves_Kiss . jpg** [remove spaces]_

_I'm still trying to remember how to breathe..._

_Um. Right. Here's the next chapter, with its track. As if anything else is really even borderline important after viewing such perfection :D  
><em>

_Companion track:  
>The Joy Formidable, "9669" -<br>http : / / www . youtube . com / watch?v=j9rIHPvm5c0 [remove spaces]_

_Just as a note for this track, this is pretty much THE track for this whole fic, to me. I think it's rather beautiful and can't stop listening to it, at the moment... (whilst staring unabashedly at napchic's art...)  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three - Is That the Long Goodbye?, Part One<strong>

She cried as she walked, a nervous hyperventilation mingled with rolling tears and vocal chord spasms. Ron... had kissed her.

She had _never _been kissed like that before. Not ever.

In fact, she'd only been kissed twice, according to her memory. And damn if Ron hadn't kissed her with bloody miles of history...

She was too stunned to think things through... which was unheard of, for her. But what she did know was that Ron's hasty departure was echoing loudly at the forefront of her muddled thoughts, and she felt certain that though she'd been caught so gloriously off guard by his kiss, it hadn't been a positive sign of things to come. No, it had been more on par with a moment of weakness that he was sure to lock away again. In fact, she somehow doubted even more now that she'd ever have resolution with him...

Unless.

She was going to say yes. Of course she was. She was going to watch his bloody memory. Because he wanted her to. Because he said he _needed _her to.

But as she climbed, halfway up the final hill towards the castle, she paused, late evening wind blowing through tangled wisps of her hair. He'd kissed her the way that he had because... he'd kissed her that way _before_. It had been entirely too familiar and natural, even as he'd trapped her against the wall...

She'd suspected before, but never let herself go this far into considering...

But now.

What had they done? How far must they have gone, before... through days and weeks and _months _of lost memories?

She recognized that she was biting her lip too hard and holding her breath for too long, but she didn't want to break the almost-silence of the chilly evening with her sobs.

Too late, she hunched forward, shoulders shaking.

Wouldn't she be able to feel it? Wouldn't her body remember if she'd been with him that way?

But she must have. The way fear had gathered and was clinging on so very tightly. She wanted to know... almost _needed _to. But who could she ask? Right, walk up to _Harry _and... then what?

Forcing her expression towards something neutral, she pressed onward, climbing up the rest of the way to the castle, and making her way along the corridors with a deeply thudding heart and too much on her mind. As wonderful as it had been, she almost wished he hadn't kissed her at all. It was too much. Too hard to glimpse something that closely that she wasn't allowed to have, in the end. It was supposed to be peaceful. She was supposed to be happy. _They _were supposed to be happy.

So she'd watch his memory. But perhaps not really for the reasons he needed her to. She'd watch it... to learn... to study... and to figure this out.

If she had really done this, then she was as bad as they were treating her. And if she hadn't, and could prove it, he had to take her back. Didn't he?

She had to believe that he would. That nothing would stop them. Nothing, if she could figure this out...

* * *

><p>Ron was pacing his dormitory. How many times would he finish off a night this way? He still hadn't removed his gloves. There was something protective about them being there, to shield him from... who knew.<p>

And of course, Harry entered the dormitory first, relieving Ron of having to explain his currently erratic appearance and behaviour to anyone else... anyone who wouldn't understand...

"I saw her, at the pitch," Harry said, softly. "I didn't want to point her out to you, obviously, but-"

"Yeah, cheers," Ron interrupted, covering his jaw and mouth with a gloved hand for a moment. "I saw her, too..."

He held back any more glimpses of what he had done, not wanting to show his momentary weakness now, to prove he'd been as unstable and incapable as Harry had feared that night, when Ron had announced his plans to go on with... _the plan_... to return to Hogwarts.

Instead, Ron offered up his thoughts as a distraction from his unevenly beating heart.

"I've started to realise something that I probably shouldn't be realising..." he trailed off.

Harry's eyebrows knitted together as he glanced up into Ron's solemn face.

"There's too big a part of me that _could _take her back."

Harry's eyes widened as he silently waited for more.

"That's not a good sign," Ron sighed, "but how the fuck do I stop myself from feeling it?"

"I know," Harry very nearly whispered, "but you just have to remember how it was before. How can you be with someone that you don't trust... that you don't _forgive_?"

"I couldn't really do it. I could never... But that's the terrible bit," Ron grimaced. "The part of me that could be with her again... that part forgives her. That small part isn't even angry with her anymore. In fact, no," he shuddered. "God, I don't think any part of me ever really _was _angry, exactly."

"Ron..." Harry's eyes creased at the edges, like he longed for this as much as Ron dreaded admitting to it. What did Harry want, really? It was impossible for them to work this out. And yet, of course they all wanted to believe in the possibility of a happy ending...

"When I saw it happen, with _her _and _him_," Ron continued, "of course I couldn't really believe it was real. But then, later, when I finally _did _believe it, I thought of two things..."

Ron sat on the edge of his bed and continued slowly as Harry joined him.

"I thought, 'you should have known it wouldn't last,' and then... there was disappointment, for not being better, for not being someone who deserved her. And that's so bloody unfair!" Ron's eyes melted a bit as he shouted frustratedly... "She _did _do something wrong! She could have just told me she was through with me. How did I not see it coming? I never thought she... I never would have guessed... But, after all that, I couldn't figure out how to just sodding blame her! So I... I did all the things I thought I was supposed to do, feeling pitiful and trying to stay hacked off when I... I still bloody loved her..."

"You deserve so many things that you think you don't, you prat. You deserve better than what she did," Harry huffed, running a hand through his hair.

Ron glanced sideways at Harry, taking in the sight of his red cheeks and askew glasses. And Ron was rather a lot more than proud to call this man his best friend. But it wasn't that simple. Not now, not with her. It wasn't ever going to be.

"But Harry," Ron breathed, "I can't stop going through this bloody loop. And that's the worst part. She doesn't know what _actually _happens, later. Or she doesn't _feel _it. And she won't. She's stuck at the part where she actually _loves _me. But she doesn't understand that one day, she won't. If I didn't know how it all turns out, I'd almost be tempted to try again! But I can't because I _do _know. I know that it all ends, don't I. She thinks she loves me. But she won't, eventually. And now I have to be the strong one... Blimey. Harry, I could be with her again, and have some twisted version of what we had, for a while, because... she doesn't remember that _eventually_, she'll feel differently! But _I_ know. And I couldn't. And it's killing me."

Harry could say nothing. How could he? Ron knew that there was a part of him, too, who wanted things to work, to go back to how they'd been before they'd all been fucked.

But there was hopeful truth... and there was impossibility. And mixed in there somewhere, there was reality. But which one was which?

_Pick one_, Ron could hear the room around him echoing. _Pick one and see if you're right._

A solid, angry word rose through the chaos to deafen all the rest of his options. Something that sounded way too much like goodbye...

* * *

><p><em><strong>Wednesday, August 12th...<strong>_

Ron sniffed, sitting hunched over the edge of his bed. His hair was a positive mess of stray ginger clumps, sticking up at varying angles. Harry cleared his throat and took another sip of his tea. And he wondered what this would really change. Were they going back to Hogwarts now? What happened next?

The world was a blank canvas and they had but one or two tools and colours with which to fill it.

"What if..." Ron began, voice hardly audible, "...it wasn't _really _her?"

Harry studied Ron for a moment before clearing his throat again to speak.

"Yeah, I know," Harry began, "I've thought of that. Hell, I've done hardly anything _but _think of that... I just don't... How? And why? And... she said your code word. You told me that. And if someone else had found out the word, then how was it they knew so much about you, from before? She said things that... well, who else would know those things so specifically? You haven't told anyone..."

Ron chewed his bottom lip and squinted.

"Okay, then some other way!" he half-cried, half-shouted. "Who have we been around that might want to hurt us?"

"H-Hermione hasn't really been around anybody," Harry sighed.

"During the battle, what if-"

"We were all checked out, weren't we?" Harry reasoned. "Every one of the death eaters who were present at that final battle at Hogwarts were questioned as well, and sentenced and-"

"Okay, okay," Ron breathed, elbows on his knees, dipping his head forward to cover his eyes with his hands.

"But..." Harry continued, slowly, "we could have missed something. _They _could have missed something. That's always... possible."

He really didn't know how much he believed it, but it had to be said. Though, in the long run, Ron needed to accept this to move on, it was nowhere near time for that now. And what if Ron was right? So they'd looked at their options. Harry had been mulling them over since everything had gone to hell. But he couldn't find anything that really made sense. There were signs when an imperius curse was used. They would know, if _that _particular option was possible. And somehow, Harry was actually rather certain that Hermione would be able to resist the curse to the point of stopping herself from cheating, and even to stop herself from saying the things that she'd said to Ron, afterwards...

So they were stuck. Believing it, or forced into denial.

But he wasn't giving up yet. He'd learned what it meant to give up. And this was much too important...

* * *

><p><em><strong>Sunday, August 23rd...<strong>_

The thought of seeing her again in little over a week...

It was nearly unbearable.

He paused mid-pace to take yet another deep, calming breath. Well, but he'd made up his mind.

Now, to justify it.

Harry entered Ron's bedroom almost silently, shutting the door just shy of the frame as he stood, hands in his pockets, waiting for Ron to speak.

"I'm going to go back to Hogwarts."

Harry sighed up at him.

"Are you sure? You know I'd stay back with you if you-" but Ron shook his head and cut Harry off.

"You wouldn't need to do that. You have a chance to be with Ginny. And I wouldn't really let you do that anyway, mate," he smiled, briefly. "But that doesn't matter because I've decided. I'm going back."

"She'll be there," Harry stated, bluntly.

"Yes," Ron nodded, "I know."

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Harry asked, after a long moment.

"I think," Ron began, "that I shouldn't have to change my plans because of her. She changed them _for _me in the first place, in a way. Not that I wasn't thrilled to go back to Hogwarts if it meant I got to see her everyday... back then, when..."

He paused to swallow and regain some small bits of composure, before continuing...

"But now, we're enrolled, aren't we. And we've paused our program at the Auror department... and it just..." He scratched the side of his head and shrugged. "I can do it. It's not going to be so bad. We'll sit on the other side of each classroom and just... pretend she doesn't exist."

Ron reckoned he could do that... or some variation of it. He stamped down all fears and apprehension for the sake of believability. Though he knew, once Harry left him to himself again, he'd go right back to panic mode, to meticulously, _mentally_, working his way through what each day might be like, to possible moments when he could spot her in the corridors... which secret passageways he could take to avoid accidentally meeting up with her...

"Okay," Harry finally said. "Promise you'll tell me if it's too hard for you or..." His words trailed off to the unknown. What did someone do when someone they loved was hurting for reasons they could not actually, truthfully, understand themselves... and which they could not hope to set right or actually help to fix?

Nothing. He could do nothing but be there. And he had.

"Harry, thanks for being... you know..." and Ron swooped his hand vaguely through the air. "Just, thank you."

Harry looked like he wanted to say something, but that he was fumbling to figure out how. So Ron chuckled shortly through his nose and took a step closer, pulling Harry in for a hug. When they parted again, the low setting sun through Ron's window was reflecting off of Harry's glasses, nearly blinding amounts of orange light stunning Ron's sensitive eyes.

"Good talk," Harry chuckled, as Ron blinked his eyes away.

So they'd go back. And she'd be there. But they'd be fine. Right?

He might not have believed it, but he could pretend that he did... for now.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Sunday, September 13th...<strong>_

Harry approached her at the end of the day. She was shocked by the way he waked up to her, like he had a distinctive purpose and a plan. And she didn't like that look in his eyes, the one that told her that he was too determined to be swayed... and _up _to something.

"Hermione, we have to get your memories back," he said, standing face to face with her in the middle of an empty corridor, between the library and that familiar path back up to Gryffindor tower.

"Harry-" she began, shaking her head.

"Listen," he pressed onward, turning and gesturing down the corridor, to signify that she should walk with him. "If you go on like this, you'll keep thinking you can fix it. I need you on the same page. _He _needs you there. Because-"

"Stop, Harry," she interrupted. "I... I've talked to him. And I've decided now... I'm going to watch his memory."

Harry choked on his next breath.

"You're... what? !"

"I need to, I think," she said, hoping that Harry could not see through her to her reasons for accepting this.

They stared for a long time, back at each other, and at last, it was clear that Harry saw no objections to this plan.

"Okay," he breathed. "Okay, that's probably good. So have you told Ron you're going to do it-"

"Do what?" Ron interrupted as he walked briskly around the corner, startling Hermione so badly that she dropped the books she was carrying. She bent to pick them up, blushing as she felt his eyes on her, without possessing the strength to look back up to meet him halfway.

"I... I've decided. I'll watch your memory," she said, straightening up at last with a newly organized stack of books and a rather blank expression, for which she was unmistakably proud.

He almost looked... disappointed?

"Uh, alright," he nodded, dazed. "We should do that... soon."

"Yes-"

"But for now," he pressed on, "Harry, come down to the pitch with me? Ritchie's organizing a little practice for the older players." And Ron's attention was officially turned away from her. She managed to sneak away quite easily, only just noticing the way his arms were tensed at his sides, and how frequently he was shifting his weight from foot to foot...

* * *

><p>Practice hadn't cleared his mind like he'd hoped. Actually, it had only served to give him more time to think. Somehow, up there in the air, it was easier to focus. But what was he supposed to focus <em>on<em>?

This was supposed to be a good thing.

She'd watch his memory. She'd see that he was right. And of course, he knew her. So, maybe he'd learned a few new things a month ago... about her supposed _loyalty_, goodness, kindness...

No, that was all wrong. And off subject. And not helping him one bit.

But the point was, he knew that she'd want to test every angle, to see every possibility in hopes of proving him wrong. And once she'd exhausted all hope, she'd see it the way he saw it. She'd know what she'd done and that there was nothing she could do to fix it. And she'd stop coming around. She'd stop watching him from across the grounds or seeking him out for a _chat_...

Wouldn't she?

And the prospect positively terrified him.

He had to crush all of her hope and turn her into... him. Into a lost soul with no focus or well-lit path on which to travel. And all for what? For his own selfish means?

To heal?

Sod it, that wasn't going to heal him. To watch her in pain. No matter what-

But then what the fuck had she done to him? Someone might say she deserved to suffer just a bit herself, to see what it felt like. But bloody hell. But maybe not _now_. The Hermione who had done this to him, who had ripped out his heart and torn it to shreds... perhaps _then_... perhaps _that _Hermione...

The trouble was, he couldn't make sense of the two of them. He couldn't reason that Hermione, as she was now, without the memory of what she'd done, was the same as Hermione from before, the Hermione who had broken him. Of course he knew that they _were _the same. He knew that the person she was now was just as capable as ever of the horrible things she had done to him. But he couldn't help seeing who she was _before_ all of that, not just tiny glimpses but glaring visions of that person, every time she looked at him, every time he saw her from across the castle corridors...

So that's where he was. And it wasn't going to get better, not as long as he remained here.

He had to merge the two together, had to make them one again. He wanted to choose _this _Hermione, who she was now... and who she'd always been to him, through so many years. He wanted _her _to be the one who remained. Oh, God, how he wanted it. _He _could forget the past! He could _make _himself forget! But then, what? What would happen when she hurt him again? What would happen when the person she really, truly was, or would _become_, resurfaced and broke his heart once more?

He was clinging onto a vision of her, an ideal that had turned out to be completely untrue. He'd been believing a lie, a skewed idol which he'd built up to the point of being - apparently - blinded to what was underneath. If she'd always been able to hurt him this way, she'd never been who he'd fallen in love with to begin with...

Choking back a sob, ticking off a countless number of times he'd had to do that very thing, he zoomed his broom downward, falling through a clear sky of twinkling stars, their lights blurring with his speed... and he landed with a heavy thud in the dead centre of the moonlit pitch.

He had to choose truth. Reality. And he could find it now. As much as he wanted to will it away, to stamp it down and out until he _couldn't _find it, ever again.

She _was _who she'd been a month ago. He couldn't trust her, ever again... Harry was right. No matter how big a part of him had started to forgive her.

So he'd show her that memory. He'd take away her innocence. He laughed, because he supposed he'd done that before, in another way...

Now, he'd take away her hope for the future as well.

And he'd give her the truth, through her own eyes. A truth that she'd see and believe as he did, as he _had _to...

One day...

* * *

><p><em>Is that the long, is that the long goodbye?<br>That's just the one, that's just the one you'll find..._

_You make the call, so make the call shorter  
>You break the spell<br>I'll make the fall harder_

_This time, it's over..._

_Step out the light  
>Step out and re-shape me<br>Here comes the white  
>Here comes the big empty<br>If we're meant to part, we're meant to part sweeter..._

_We don't ride, we don't ride to sunset  
>We just ride off to our last breath...<em>

_You're on my mind._


	8. Is That the Long Goodbye?, Part 2

_Companion track:  
>The Joy Formidable, "Llaw = Wall" -<br>http : / / www . youtube . com / watch?v=O9_3y32XiTw [remove spaces]_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three - Is That the Long Goodbye?, Part Two<strong>

_**Friday, September 18th...**_

Yes, he'd been avoiding her. With far more gusto than his conflicted heart had been doing since they'd arrived at school. He had much more of a reason to keep himself away now. Before, it had been a push and pull between his longing for a glimpse of her and the wall he'd built up against her. Now, only the wall remained, reinforced by the fact that if she got too close, this time, he'd hurt her.

It wasn't a question of _if_. It was a question of _when_.

Harry had managed, through simply _being _Harry Potter, to take up a pensieve from its place of residence and hide it away in the Room of Requirement, for Ron's use when he saw fit. Though Harry hadn't mentioned it again to him, since that first time, to let him know that it was ready, Ron knew that Harry was on the verge of asking why, every time he was left alone with Ron... why had he still not done it?

But... today seemed like the day, for some reason. Ron had woken up in a half-panic, clutching at his sheets and somehow lingering in his dreams for longer than usual... something about a stone room with no windows and a girl's piercing screams from above shooting through his nerves...

Refusing to match the sounds of his dreams up to the not-so-distant reality with which they belonged, he'd dressed and gone to class and held his breath when she'd entered the room... all of the normal things that he'd been doing since day one.

And now, it was dinner, and he wasn't even hungry, and she was standing to go, at the opposite end of the table... and he needed to follow her...

He was on his feet, trailing behind her through corridor after corridor, even as his heart pounded so loudly inside his own ears that he could scarcely hear his own thoughts.

"Hermione," he barely said, his own voice lost with that desperate plea that burned him, the one that told him _no_. That it wasn't time yet. That he needed... just one more day.

But she turned around at the slightest sound of his voice, back rigid and books held so tightly against her chest. She carried them everywhere, like a safety net. And he supposed, in some ways, that they were...

He looked across the empty corridor at her, deep brown eyes seeking refuge in any objects they could find on either side of him, something that wasn't his flesh and blood and soul...

And then, the greatest excuse of all occurred to him, and he felt like a prat for standing here.

"Damn it," he hissed, shoving his hands embarrassingly into his pockets.

"Ron?" she questioned, keeping her distance.

"I-I," he started, "I was going to drag you to the Room of Requirement tonight, to watch my... my memory... but shit, tomorrow's your birthday."

She finally looked at him, lips parting slowly as her forehead creased, eyes wide.

"What does that matter?" she asked, already on the verge of tears.

He closed his eyes for a second, grimacing. And when he opened them again, she was still staring up at him, and had she moved closer? He rationally knew that she hadn't, but some mental distance had been crossed because he could feel her more strongly, could almost smell her there...

"Who wants to watch something like that on their birthday?" he reasoned, which didn't seem to help at all.

She almost staggered back a step, until her back was firmly against the wall. And she cleared her throat.

"We can do it another time," he added, to fill the silence with something. "And it's getting late. I dunno, I just don't think it's a great time, now that I've thought it through..." But she seemed to be gaining strength in his stammering, meandering ramblings, because she straightened up a fraction and her eyes were suddenly dry.

"Actually, we should get it over with," she said, a stony sort of resolve melting down her. This was brave Hermione. This was the girl who'd saved his life so very many times, more times than she even knew...

"You don't have to..." he trailed off, but sod it, he wished he could disappear. And now every contradiction was simply an excuse. It was all too real, and he was here and she was here... and between them, there was this past that she'd soon know, and he'd have to face her shock and her tears and... "You _really _don't have to."

"I think we should," she said, firmly. "I want to be done with it."

He winced, because she might have cursed him with seven little words. _He _didn't want to be done with it. Not really. Done with it meant that all of his hopeless hope would dissolve into nothing. He wasn't ready for that. But he'd never _be _ready for that.

"Shall we?" she added, when he said nothing for too long. And maybe it was just because she had to make sure he didn't back down... or didn't give _her _the chance to back down. Maybe this was just as hard for her as it was for him.

Of course it was. It had to be. Then again, the sooner he showed her, the sooner she could get started, solving another puzzle. And she was Hermione, after all... always looking out for another puzzle.

"Okay," he rasped. "Okay. Let's go." And he led the way, feeling her eyes on his spine with every step. She lingered behind him, and he didn't dare look back.

* * *

><p>Tears filled her eyes as she clung to her books. It was like walking to her own death sentence. Too much of her was admitting defeat already, just from the way he walked in front of her, the way he hunched slightly as he turned each corner.<p>

This was real for him.

Her betrayal, whatever she'd said to hurt him enough for him not to try to win her back... or not to _want _her back. Was it easy for him, to hurt her now in return?

But then there was that pause. And he'd remembered her birthday. He'd never forgotten before. Why should something like the end of his world keep him from remembering this time?

Tears ran silently down her cheeks as they descended a deserted staircase and ducked through a hidden passageway.

She almost wanted to stop him. Not for herself, but because she'd watched him trying to stop her from making them do this. She'd watched relief flood over him as he'd realised that his excuse, her birthday, was actually a great one, good enough to warrant at least a few extra days of ignorance. But he was leading them, and she was more afraid of the days that could possibly stretch out from here if she didn't force this than she was of seeing what she might have done, those weeks ago, to ruin him...

But before she had had enough time, they'd reached the Room of Requirement, and he was pacing the corridor. The door slowly revealed itself, familiar and now sickening in its purpose, right before her eyes. And once more, she followed him through. And still, he didn't look back. And she silently thanked him for it as she wiped her eyes dry with the sleeve of her robe.

* * *

><p>The room was so clearly equipped for one purpose that it froze him, several paces back from the centre of the room, where the pensieve hovered, glowing mesmerizingly and silently before him.<p>

She stepped up almost next to him, and he could nearly feel her breaking down as she moved her books away from her chest, lowering them softly to the floor. When she straightened up again, his fingers were wrapping, one by one, around his wand, throat dry and eyes creased softly at the corners.

"This is going to hurt," he said gravelly, and he could see her nodding out of the corner of his left eye.

"You need me to do this, Ron," she whispered, and his stomach dropped as he forced himself to blink more rapidly.

And, at last, he turned to face her, wand held loosely by his side.

She looked up into his eyes and for a tiny moment, he smiled. For a moment, they were back in fifth year, illegally practicing defensive spells with Harry as their teacher. They were partnered up day after day, out of their own automatic tendencies, and they'd aim teasing curses at one another in lieu of properly admitting that they fancied each other...

"You remember," he started, "the day you first produced a full patronus?"

Her eyes widened and he watched her smile back up at him.

"Of course I do," she sighed. "And of course I knew they all meant something important, the form they took for each person. I went off and researched mine to see if I could figure out..."

Her cheeks flushed, and he studied her carefully. Had he been too daft to notice some connection between Hermione and her otter?

"You can call me thick," he said, "but I don't have a bloody clue what..." But his voice faded completely as her smile turned sad and hopeless, her eyes lowering from his as she gently cleared her throat. And he had a strange sense that he knew what she was going to say, before she said it...

"Otters belong to the same family of species as weasels. It's sort of silly, but it's not as though I picked my own patronus... And on top of that, what Muggle town did you live closest to?" She let out half of a nervous chuckle before stifling it and clearing her throat again. "Anyway, that's not why we're here, is it?" And she looked back up into his eyes. "Let's have a look at this memory."

"Why... _why _did I never put that together before?" he breathed, overwhelmed. "That was fifth year, Hermione! Fifth year..."

"I _know _that, Ron," she sighed. "Yes, we could have had _years _instead of a few _months _that I don't even bloody _remember_, but what can we do about it now? We came here to end this, didn't we? So let's end it."

She was breathing much too quickly, and he wanted nothing more than to gather her up and never let her go again.

"I'm sorry I kissed you last week," he blurted, and she winced as she bit her lip. "Not because I didn't want to!" he added quickly. "I always want to..."

Her lips trembled and she squeezed her eyes shut, against the world... against his words.

"Hermione, I would do anything to change what happened. I even considered _actually _obliviating myself to give us another try!" he cried. "But we can't! I can't go through that. And you're going to see why. Listen, I don't _want _to show you this! I don't want to hurt you like this. But then, in some small way, maybe... maybe I _do_..."

He winced as she opened her eyes, only to look away from him.

"But I know... Hermione, I'm sure you could convince not to do this. You could tell me no and I'd probably-"

"Every day I don't watch it," she cut in, her bloodshot eyes darting up to meet his at last, "I'm hurting _you_. And that's the very last thing I'd ever want to do. When I realised, through the years, how much I hurt you, accidentally, all of the times you thought I didn't see you the way you wanted me to, the way I really _did_... I wasn't always fair to you. I was too hard on you. I didn't let you see how much you really meant to me because I was so damn terrified of losing you! But now I _am _losing you, after all of that. Of course I shouldn't have been such a know-it-all. I should have been more supportive. I should have told you how much you meant to me. That you meant _everything _to me. I should have told you that... I l-loved you! That I didn't want to even try to live without you-"

He couldn't take it any longer, and before her next breath, he'd wrapped his wand arm around her shoulders, drawing her against his chest as he closed his eyes and lowered his nose to the top of her head.

"Ron, what are you _doing_?" she cried into his shirt, but her arms circled his waist even as she asked a question he couldn't answer.

They stood there together as seconds ticked past, his lips against her curls and her watery eyes slipping shut as she pressed her cheek more firmly to his chest. When they would eventually let go, there would be nothing to protect them, waiting on the other side. The moment he lowered his arms from around her, they'd have to jump off the cliff they'd been balanced on the edge of since she'd said yes to his request. And it might be his last touch. Their last moment in each other's arms. Because it felt so much like it was. And he knew, that if she could never prove this memory wrong, he'd never call her back. He'd fade away from her, like a distant memory...

But it was inevitable, like trying to pause time before an exam. Of course, no matter what you might be capable of, time would always catch up to you. And they were out of second chances and backtracking excuses now.

He breathed in deeply, feeling her small body tremble against his.

He breathed out, arms slipping lower...

And he let her go.

She sobbed out a breath as she backed away from him. And he raised his wand to his temple, concentrating on that day, not so very long ago, when she'd ripped out his heart.

And as he recalled each nuance and facet of those moments in time, he grew colder and more distant and less afraid of what he had to do. Remembering the way she'd looked at him then, it wasn't the look of someone who loved him. Not the look of someone who really wanted him for who he was.

And as he drew the memory cleanly away from his mind, lowering it with a silvery swish into the pensieve, he didn't mind so much that she'd soon know who she really was.

"Are you ready?" he asked, gently, because he could still hear her words from earlier, echoing somewhere distant through this very room.

_I l-loved you!_

At least she'd had the decency to keep things past tense.

"Yes," she said, and he took her hand, removed from the idea that such a gesture could mean anything more than a way to direct her towards her fate.

He squeezed her fingers once. And together, they fell into his memory, swirling as the room around them slipped out of focus and disappeared.

* * *

><p><em>I never mentioned all the things I did<br>It's the pain that keeps you wanting  
>So take over... you're the ugly truth<br>If you leave, leave what you are_

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:** Just a quick note to thank my ever-awesome **napchic** for inspiring me in her notes to add the line re: Ottery St. Catchpole! It really makes the connection more complete. Thank you!  
><em>


	9. Is That the Long Goodbye?, Part 3

_**A/N:** This was a terribly intense chapter to write. It's definitely the most R rated thing so far in this story, just fyi. Not that you didn't already guess that :)_

_Right. Onwards!  
><em>

_Companion track:  
>The Joy Formidable, "It's Over" (Roy Orbison cover) -<br>http : / / www . youtube . com / watch?v=zna6SxR88pQ [remove spaces]_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three - Is That the Long Goodbye?, Part Three<strong>

_**Tuesday, August 11th... **_

Memory Ron's back faded down into focus before Ron and Hermione, as everything settled inside the pensieve. Memory Ron walked alone down a long, empty corridor, boots echoing against a polished, stone floor. His slightly too broad Auror robes draped down off his left shoulder nonchalantly as he walked, and he rolled his neck, causing his fluffy hair to shift and drape in a marginally different pattern than what was typical.

He reached the end of the corridor and shrugged his left shoulder up against the last door on the left side, sliding rather tiredly into the room. Showers lined the walls on two sides, behind a low banister, and straight back, through a narrow passage, lockers stood in stark rows in a slightly larger room beyond. He bypassed the showers and worked his way out of his robes as he moved down between two rows of lockers, stopping at number 465. Opening the locker with a swish of his wand, the first, most immediately visible thing inside was a thin necklace, hanging from a small hook in the centre. Of course, it was just a simple silver chain... but the petite, green-tinted holly charm that adorned it was what made it stand out.

It was Hermione's, a gift from her mother in sixth year when she'd spent the Christmas holiday at home, alternating annoyingly back and forth between despising Ron and desperately loving him...

She gasped, but of course he didn't change his course in the memory. Next to her, living Ron dropped her hand, and she felt a chill run through her that she couldn't expend thought over now as she watched the scene unfolding before her...

Memory Ron set about undressing, and it was just then that Hermione really put things together. He was alone. In a locker room. And she was watching him undress...

He did so in what would almost be considered a comical order of events, if the timing had been different. He unbuckled his belt first, _then _removed his jacket as he attempted to toe off his boots. After dropping his jacket inside his locker, he bent over like a pencil folding itself in half and untied his laces, massaging his foot around inside the boot until the leather was loose enough for him to remove it with the toe of his other foot. And he straightened up again, toeing off his second boot as he lifted both arms into the air, dropping them back at the elbow and grasping, with two fists, at the thin cotton of his shirt, working it quickly up over his head... to reveal quite a lot of taut stomach muscle in the process, ginger hairs perfectly gathered in a neat line downward, beneath his trousers, where his belt now hung open, clattering slightly as he moved...

The front of his shirt slid up his torso as it was removed, clinging to his narrow body and slowly revealing his pale skin to her eyes, inch by inch. Surely, she was viewing everything with an altered perspective, virtually slowing down time itself as his head re-emerged from underneath cotton, hair absolutely mad as he absentmindedly licked his lips and dropped the now useless shirt inside of his locker to join his jacket.

But before she could even breathe again, his perfectly long fingers had worked his trouser button free and lowered the zip, revealing the softest looking black cotton boxers through this new opening... He actually wiggled his hips, for half a second, to lower his trousers to his ankles, bending again to work them free of his feet, and removing his socks one by one with startlingly good balance. He'd clearly gained a lot from his short time in Auror training already...

His spine curved, each bone digging up against freckled skin as his hair draped into his eyes. And when he straightened up again, he went for his boxer elastic with both hands like it was nothing.

Nothing! And she was standing right _there_...

Of course she rationally knew that he could not see her. That this was a memory, not reality. That the real, flesh and blood Ron, who was standing somewhere off to her left, had not brought her here for any purpose other than the one she'd so recently feared. To watch him fall apart. Because of her.

And here she was, heart racing, as she watched him undress before her eyes, oblivious. It was somehow almost too much, and she fretfully wondered if she needed to look away. But then it struck her...

The Ron who stood next to her, fully clothed and unforgiving, didn't seem to mind that she was here. Oh yes, she'd suspected she'd seen him naked before, during those ruddy four months she had no memory of. She'd suspected, but had no way to prove it, other than her own deductions. But today, all cases that could have been made before for this being something ordinary... well, they paled in comparison to the fact that he hadn't warned her she'd be watching him strip today. He hadn't blushed at the thought of bringing her into his own mind where he was stripping down to his skin whilst standing next to her, watching her watch him...

Her head was spinning.

He was past that delightful period of embarrassment that would naturally come with being newly naked before someone you loved. And she'd missed it. And it was becoming blindingly obvious that all of those little things, those moments and steps she'd never really thought about before, exactly, were the ones she'd mourn for life. She could not go back to before. She could not rewind time - oh, how she wished there was a lost time turner out there still, just to give her an irrational chance - and she could not have these things over again. Even if they were ever together once more, it was too late for so many things she now realised she'd always longed for.

She tried not to stare as he removed his boxers and reached a long arm deep into his locker for a fresh towel. Her cheeks burned as she felt the presence of the Ron who _could _actually see her, just off to her left... And by the time memory Ron had paused to take note of a strange sound coming from down the hall, she was trembling. She hadn't even noticed the sound until his eyes had darted, body freezing before her as he silently listened for more. But the moment passed, and, a bit more cautiously than before, he reached for his wand and moved through the locker room, draping his fluffy white towel over his left shoulder as he stepped into the shower room.

He walked along the tile, stopping before the third shower behind the half-wall that blocked her view of him from the waist down. But he was too tall, and she could see, at the top edge of the wall, curls of ginger hair culminating below his stomach, hipbones straining against skin that could barely contain them...

She pressed her lips tightly together as he lowered his wand and his towel to the top of the half-wall and turned on the shower spray, hot water cascading in miniature rivers over his strong shoulders, down along his thin body, pooling at his belly button...

That strange echoing sound startled him again, and his eyes went immediately to the door, knuckles rigid as he placed his right hand back on top of his wand, curling his fingers around it, ready to make a move...

And then, as if the mere sound had ripped through the tissue of her heart, she heard her own voice... giggling... from down the hall. And she watched, with shivering resignation, as Ron's expression turned from guarded to delighted. He grinned as he turned off the shower, half wrapping his towel about his waist as he stepped out from behind the wall. She hardly had time to notice how low the soft cotton was riding, and how careless he had been to make sure everything was properly covered before heading for the door...

His palm pressed against the glossy wood of the door. And another, deeper voice rang out from a distance, somewhere on the other side of that door...

Ron froze again, back tensing for a moment, and Hermione could hardly stand to watch as he furrowed his eyebrows... before pushing the door open anyway, obviously suspecting nothing more than a friendly conversation to greet him on the other side. He must have only paused to consider whether or not he should dress more appropriately before heading towards the sound of her voice...

What she had thought was the end of the corridor, turned out not to be the end at all, but simply an almost hidden black door, behind which the hallway curved to the left sharply, bathed, as Ron continued along, in dull blue light, emanating from some place beyond...

The sounds of her voice and that deeper male voice were growing more muffled, which was somewhat strange, given that Ron was moving closer... closer...

"What was that?" she heard herself whisper from far off, and Ron stopped walking, at the edge of something... an opening at the end of the corridor, that spilled out into a gigantic room, vaulted ceilings and various dimly lit areas blocked off by mats and what looked like some type of obstacle course, running jaggedly through the center of the gym... which was empty, she could see, as she walked up behind Ron...

Empty, except for herself, and one other person, hidden in shadow across the gym, against the far wall. The man with her there was tall, his dark hair nowhere near as messy and unkempt as Harry's, but just about as long. He was shrugging out of a leather jacket, and her back was against the wall as she abandoned her curious search of the room for some noise Ron must have made... and she looked up into this new man's eyes, something devious and terribly sensual in her stare.

Ron was holding his breath, backed against the corridor wall now where he was completely hidden in darkness, his wide eyes glowing silvery blue in a thin strip of light.

"Are you going to leave him, or what?" this new man asked her, his hands too close to her waist, finally closing in to touch her. She almost flinched, but at the last second, she shuddered into the wall and sighed.

"_Paul_..." she laughed, something almost unfamiliar in the way she spoke the name, perhaps because it was another's name she caressed with such informality and closeness. She loathed the sound of her own voice from where she stood, with Ron, in shadow... too far away.

"Come on... you're almost done with it," Paul goaded, and memory Hermione rolled her eyes as his hands slid up her sides.

Next to Ron, in the darkness, she felt her knees go weak. She was witnessing her own betrayal. And it was _her_! He really _had _seen her there. It was wrong. Something was wrong, it had to be... and she knew, as Paul slid his hands up under the sides of her shirt, that it was far from over.

She realised, as she watched Paul lowering his head over her own, that the real Ron had vanished, and she glanced back for half a second to search for him. He was nowhere to be seen, and she had a sickening suspicion that he had left her here to see this alone, either unable or unwilling to watch this particular bit all over again. So why, she wondered, had he followed her into the memory to begin with?

Memory Hermione allowed Paul's lips to descend on hers, and her eyes slipped shut. Memory Ron squinted, from his hiding spot, shaking his head as if trying to wake from a dream, unable to believe it...

He stepped out of the darkness like a sleepwalker, moving almost on thin air, closer and closer towards her... Their lips parted, and he ducked behind a stack of mats, peering around the right edge to go on watching, to be sure...

But it _was _her. It _was _Hermione, that much was certain. Whether she was somehow the victim of some outside force or not... that part was unclear. But everything about her was real and present, and she was doing this of her own will, somehow. Her fingers laced at the back of Paul's neck, and she lifted herself up onto her toes to kiss him again.

Ron covered his mouth and jaw with one hand, clutching his towel around his waist with the other hand, much more firmly than before. His knuckles were turning white as he squinted again, this time against horror and lingering disbelief. It was real. He just couldn't let himself believe it...

She was kissing Paul in a way that she could not recall ever kissing anyone before. Is this what it had been like with Ron, for a while? There was something so passionate and exciting about this exchange, and she watched as her leg slid around until her heel was pressed to the back of Paul's shin...

"Mmm," she moaned against him, "you're sure no one's around?"

"Yeah, yeah," he breathed against her, fingers slipping higher up under her shirt until she broke away and tilted her head back against the wall, dropping her hands from around his neck to open the top buttons of her blouse. "Hmmm," he hummed as his eyes landed on her newly exposed cleavage, and she shivered before kissing him again.

Ron was shaking, in a way that was truly uncontrollable. He was crouched uncomfortably behind the mats, until he could no longer support his own weight with feet alone and had melted onto the floor on his knees, clutching the side of the mats with an unsteady hand. Hermione didn't know where to look. It was too hard to watch him this way, but she was compelled to. And at the same time, she _had _to see what she'd done. She had to know _exactly _how much he had seen...

Paul's left hand slipped down to the bottom hem of her skirt and he was compressing her into the wall, fingers inching up to reveal her bare thigh, the side edge of her knickers. Silent tears poured down Ron's cheeks suddenly, and his fingers were digging into the mat.

"God, you actually do look good like this," Paul groaned, and Hermione watched herself pull back to smirk up at him before glancing around the gym and biting her lip.

"Shh," she reprimanded, through a small laugh, as he lowered his lips almost all the way down to hers again.

"I thought you liked being dangerous and mysterious," he teased.

"Yeah..." she breathed, biting at his bottom lip as his fingers dipped down to hook around the centre of her knickers, drawing them to the side as she fully wrapped her leg around his waist, reaching, at last, for his belt.

Ron was completely crumpled against the floor now, and he pressed his cheek against the side of the mats, his knees slipped slowly out from under him, lowering his body onto his right hip as his hair nearly obscured his view...

Belt unbuckled, Hermione's fingers making quick work of his top button, Paul used his other hand to unzip, arranging himself against her as she sighed out something close to a moan at their almost connection.

"Go on," she pleaded, and he pushed forcefully into her, her back gliding up the wall a few inches as she gasped with pleasure.

Next to Ron, Hermione let out a sob only she could hear as she watched herself clutching at Paul's shoulders, across the room, fingers twisting into his too-orderly hair. And Ron dropped fully onto the floor, lying on his side and sobbing silently, tears clinging to his translucent eyelashes. His _beautiful _eyelashes...

She reached out to touch him, but knew she could not reach him. But it didn't matter. She could sense him here, and she lowered herself to her knees inches behind his back, positioned just far enough right that she could still watch what she'd come here to see.

"Oh, God, I've missed you," she heard herself cry, as Paul slammed her against the wall, her other foot lifting weightlessly off the floor to dangle near the back of Paul's left knee.

She hadn't thought it possible to witness Ron breaking down anymore than he already had. But then she remembered the way he'd looked at his own brother's death, and she could not say that this image of him, right now, was so very different... the way he was curling into himself and keeping his anger just out of grasp, such complete sorrow overtaking all other options.

At last, her memory self shuddered against Paul as he bit her neck, open mouth remaining as he rounded both hands underneath her arse, supporting her now-limp weight. And he finally slipped out of her, her legs untangling from around him as she lowered herself to the floor, his hands still cupped around her arse...

She sighed out a loud breath and laughed as he moved his head back from her, taking back his own hands, finally, to reorganize himself.

"Whew," he said, shaking his head as he re-buckled his belt.

"Yeah," Hermione grinned, reaching between her legs to straighten her knickers before smoothing her skirt down again.

"I guess we should stop meeting like this," Paul teased. "A bit risky."

"Don't be daft," Hermione huffed. "Are you an Auror, or not? You're supposed to be brave."

Behind Ron, Hermione's tears suddenly fell in succinct waves at the jarring connection between her phrasing now and something she'd once shared with Ron...

_Are you a wizard, or not?_

She felt her stomach twist and was sure she was about to be sick...

Paul raised an eyebrow quickly at memory Hermione, half of a smirk freely taking up residence across his face. There was some hidden reference in their shared exchange... something quite possibly sharp and unfair.

But they stepped away from the wall, and, suddenly alarmed by their impending approach, Ron lifted his face from the gym floor and shuffled completely behind the mats again, straightening his back against them, flattening his body as much as he could to them. Next to Ron, Hermione could sense him holding his breath. Memory Hermione finished adjusting her clothing and took one more satisfied look at Paul before squaring her shoulders and walking towards the corridor across the gym, the one from which Ron had come several minutes ago... to watch his world fall apart.

But as memory Hermione passed Ron's mats, he tensed even more thoroughly against his hiding spot, a spot that was now completely open to her, if she turned around. If she looked back, for an instant, she would see him there, broken and cowering on the floor in nothing but a towel...

But she didn't look back. Paul walked briskly behind her and they slipped down the corridor and out of sight. They could still be heard, in the distance, and the sound of a door opening echoed through the room. Ron seemed to come to some version of his former senses, plans ready to enact themselves as he scrambled up off the floor, tucking one end of his towel into itself to cover things more securely as he made his frantic way towards that same corridor.

And Hermione thought she understood what he was doing now. That he couldn't lose track of her, or risk not knowing if it had really been her. If something had been done to her to make her change, or if she was really someone else in disguise. Hermione didn't know if it was because she wanted it so badly to be this way, or if Ron really had these hopes at heart, but she had to hold onto something. And yet, in another way, she hoped that, in his shattered state, he'd overlooked something, and could not see past his own heartbreak to be rational and think things completely through. It would give her room to work this out, if he hadn't thought of everything...

She could still hear her own voice, and Paul's loudly whispered goodbyes. And then, abruptly, Ron stopped walking, as Hermione emerged a few feet ahead of him, from the door to the showers, her cloak now wrapped about her shoulders. Ron took two steps forward... before pausing... and watching her go.

He was letting her leave him. And Hermione felt herself rejoicing at his misstep, sensing that it could lead her to an answer...

But, at the last moment, he stood taller than before, wiped his wrist roughly beneath his eyes to remove any lingering traces, and he slammed a hand into the shower door, now directly to his right.

Hermione jumped and turned around...

"Hey, Hermione," he said roughly, and she could have almost applauded him for his level tone and added smile. She watched herself beam at him, and wanted to wrestle herself to the ground, to scream in her own face and tell _herself _that she didn't deserve him. That she didn't deserve to even be this close to him. But it was boggling her mind to consider how rageful she was of... herself. And she grounded herself in the sure knowledge that something was still not right... "Thought I heard you out here."

"Ron!" memory Hermione shouted, careening towards him with excitement.

He extended his arms and allowed her to bury her nose in the centre of his chest as he hugged her tightly. She could see the war in his eyes, accepting what might be the last physical contact he would ever have with her, and knowing, at the same time, that it was a lie he was living.

"Code word," he asked as she pulled back from him, smiling gently up at him. And he brushed a hair behind her ear.

"Leviosa," she said, without pause for thought. And Ron's face fell darkly as he released her, backing up several steps as she breathed unevenly, eyes now darting around his face for an explanation.

"Then it really _was _you..." he whispered, eyes welling with tears again as he gawked at her where she still stood, confused, several feet away from him. But that dawning note of trepidation she could see in her own eyes... it was too telling.

"What are you-"

"I saw you," Ron cried, voice low and thick, shaking his head slowly. "I _saw _you..."

She took a strained breath and straightened her back again.

"Doing what, exactly?" she asked, adopting a tone of something close to arrogance, and the Hermione who stood invisible inside the memory, winced at her own voice.

Ron opened his mouth to tell her, but no words came out. He steadied himself against the wall with his right palm and he swallowed thickly.

"Sh-shagging him..." he finally breathed, towel slipping a few notches lower on his hips...

Memory Hermione blinked up at him, eyes widening as she took in the sight of him. And at last, she sighed and looked away.

"You... you did?" she stammered, fixated on some unseen spot on the wall.

Ron managed to glare down at her, through tears that were once again rippling down his cheeks. She returned her eyes to his and sighed again.

"Okay..." she trailed off, biting her lip lightly. And she could see the gears turning inside her own head. There was no way out of this, so what the hell was she doing?

Rage filled Hermione as she watched her own mind fumbling for something, anything... She deserved whatever she got, the absolute... Oh, if only she could call up a word bad enough to shout at herself, she would now. No one would hear her, but it would give her _something_. She painfully knew that Ron had all of the words she needed right now, and if only she could ask him for one, something appropriately nasty and degrading... if such a word even existed...

"Okay, _what_?" he finally roared at her when memory Hermione said nothing as a follow up. "Why, Hermione? Why would you do it? I love you!"

Memory Hermione covered her face with her hands for a moment, and when she looked up at him again, there was barely a hint of apology, and a world of defensive responses, aching to spill out...

"It's not enough, Ron! You just..." She sighed again and shook her head. "I don't know. You're... you're not enough."

"Then who is?" Ron cried. "_Him_?"

"I don't know..." Hermione admitted, shrugging. "It's just... it's fun with him. I don't have to be me..."

His breaths were coming in shallow and unhealthy and he was much too pale.

"When I'm with you," she pressed on, "I'm bookish, know-it-all Hermione. But I can be just... a girl... with him, can't I."

"You're more than a bookish know-it-all to me!" he shouted, clutching at anything he could. But she sighed yet again and almost rolled her eyes...

"More than!" She tossed up her hands briefly before crossing her arms over her chest. "Brilliant!"

"No!" he cut in, almost over her, taking what looked like an involuntary step in her direction. "No, listen-"

"Ron, I can't keep pretending I'm not unhappy. We just don't... work."

"Yes, we do!" Ron countered, eyes wide and almost dry again. "What are you-"

"I'm sorry," and she deflated a little, on the verge of leaving, perhaps.

"Please!" he begged. "Talk to me!" And he stepped closer still, his right hand hovering too close, almost ready to take ahold of her. But he stopped short, and she shook her head.

"Ron, what do you want to hear?"

"What the fuck you're thinking! Whatever's happened to make you turn against me like this!"

"It wasn't just one thing!" she shouted back. "Do you want me to tell you, really? You want to hear that I don't think you're stimulating enough? That the things you want to spend your time with bore me? That if I have to go to another Cannons match I might pull out my own hair?"

Oh, but surely he hadn't wanted to hear that, really. And he retracted his arm completely to shiver down at her, a mixture of shock and searing pain visibly overtaking him as he accepted her words.

"We don't have to do any of those things..." he said, weakly.

"You don't understand..." she trailed off, and he recollected a shard of strength in order to shout again...

"You've known me for years! Why is this just now happening-"

"Because now I'm with you as more than a friend," she explained.

"No, you're not," he said, dryly. "You _cheated _on me! You left me the moment you let him touch you! You don't want me..."

"No. I... I guess I really don't," she admitted, and he literally collapsed his side against the wall at the weight of her words.

"Why..." he whispered, because there were no words left for him to say. Nothing left to do but wait.

"Ron, I..."

She'd reached another bit she was clearly hesitant to tell him, but of course, leave it to Hermione to hurt him in the midst of a row, especially now. She might have been the only one who truly _could_... and she was doing a damn good job now...

"I thought, when we finally got together, that things would be better. I thought _you _would be better. After you destroyed that locket, it seemed to... change you. It made you into the person I thought I loved. Before that moment, I fancied you, yes. But it was different when you came back. You showed me someone else, someone brave and possibly confident, and that's who I chose. That's who I'd been looking for in you all those years. Maybe it's who I'd been fooling myself into believing you really were, yes. But when I thought you'd changed, I didn't hesitate."

Completely speechless, he could do nothing but swallow reflexively as he watched her.

"But you haven't changed. You're still you. And there are things about you that I just can't... I can't do it. I wanted to. I wanted to be there for you. But you aren't what I need. And you're not ever really going to be. I see that so clearly now."

A sob escaped him, and memory Hermione looked away to press on. Surely, if she saw how much she was hurting him, she'd have to stop...

"You still need to grow up. And I'm not going to be the one to wait around while you do," she added, unfolding her arms from across her chest and smoothing down her skirt with her palms. "It really does need to be over between us, Ron. I'm sorry you found out this way. But it's just... it's the way it is."

"I can change..." he tried, hardly audible.

"No," she said, voice laced with pity, "you can't. And it wouldn't matter even if you did. I've found someone else... haven't I..."

She studied him for another moment before taking a tiny step back from him, but he wasn't focused on her anymore. He'd drifted off somewhere distant. And his tears were silent once more, staining his cheeks as his glazed over eyes stared out of focus at the edge of the door into the showers...

"It's over, I'm sorry," she said.

"Yeah," he replied, devoid of emotion, voice gravelly and distant. "Sure."

She took another cautious step back, watching him again, closely.

"I should go," she said.

"Yeah," he repeated, other words possibly out of his reach at the moment.

She nodded. And she turned away from him. And in several gentle strides, she'd disappeared, turning a corner at the end of the corridor.

He was holding it brilliantly together. He pushed through the door, back into the showers, and stood in the centre, towel hanging dangerously as he stared into the stark room, white tile and silver fixtures adorning the walls.

But suddenly, he was no longer numb. Her words had finally seeped through his skin and bones and had reached his heart. And, backing against the nearest wall, he slid down the still-wet tile from his brief shower earlier, too-long legs and bony knees making him look quite a lot like a pile of forgotten tree limbs, fallen and wintry and devoid of life. And at last, breathing in awkward bursts, he let out an anguished cry, buckling over his own body and draping his head down atop his knees, blocking out the world around him as his hair fell forward.

And all Hermione could see now was the top of his still-wet head and his trembling skin as he transformed into someone else. Someone utterly broken and gone, all the world of promises sucked away from him as he cried.

She hitched a painful breath and tilted her head up towards the ceiling, willing herself to leave this awful place and return to the alternate hell that awaited her at Hogwarts. And, as if he'd read her mind, she felt a hand close around her upper arm, and she was whisked away through a blur of black and white and gray...

* * *

><p><em>Golden days before they end<br>Whisper secrets to the wind_

_It breaks your heart in two  
>To know she's been untrue<br>But, oh, what will you do?_

_All the rainbows in the sky  
>Start to weep, then say goodbye<br>You won't be seeing rainbows anymore_

_Setting suns before they fall  
>Echo to you "That's all, that's all"<br>But you'll see lonely sunsets after all_


	10. You Make Me Sleep So Badly, Part 1

_**A/N:** I have a **Twitter** account now, if you want to follow me... I'm **TradeMarkBlue** on Twitter, or you can remove the spaces from this link -  
>https:  / twitter . com / #! / TradeMarkBlue_

_And now, the story...  
><em>

_Companion track:  
>The Joy Formidable, "Buoy" -<br>http : / / www . youtube . com / watch?v=Y46ggvWe7nI [remove spaces]_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four - You Make Me Sleep So Badly, Part One<strong>

He was holding his breath as he pulled her out of his memory. But as he took a step backwards, to distance himself from her, she fell forward, against his chest, flinging her arms around his neck. She cried along his collarbone, and he went completely rigid at her touch.

"I'm sorry!" she wailed. "Ron, I'm sorry..."

He remained frozen, heart pounding against her. And all the world of injustice screamed like a kettle whistle through his veins. He had kept it all so neatly together for too damn long. He'd pushed her away, ignored her, scowled in her direction... and bloody snogged her against the inside of the deserted Gryffindor Quidditch tent... He was a fucking mess. But there were scattered lights through the fog that tapped him on the shoulder much more insistently now.

At last, she pulled back from him, blushing gently through her tears.

"I don't _think _those things!" she cried. "You _know _I don't!"

"Do I?" he said, flatly. And he let that undertone of something sharp and boiling rise to the surface as he stared down at her, unfeeling and cold.

"Ron, this is completely wrong! I _never _felt that way about you!" She was begging him to believe her, to find some truth in her earnest pronouncements. But a cold, dark lie rested there, and nothing she could say or do now could erase it. "You don't have to prove yourself to me! You already have! All of the things I said you weren't - in the m-memory - it's not what I think! I don't believe any of it!"

"But you _will_," he said, voice raised ominously. "You did."

His flat tone and short words visibly slammed against her, and he knew she was desperate to break through to him.

"We could..." she started, taking a tiny step even closer to him. "We can figure this out! Ron, please! I'm not like that, no matter what you think I did before! I know, I promi-"

He lunged forward and covered her mouth with a warm, firm hand. So she _had _broken through to him, quite suddenly. Though not in the way he was sure she had hoped.

"You promised before," he nearly growled, as she looked up into his eyes, confused... and yet, so close to him now. He could feel his own hot breath cascading over her face, and knew he'd reached her as she gasped softly. His eyes were slicing through her as he remembered each and every stab of those moments when he'd watched her change everything, too painful to live again so close to her. And yet, he'd come here. He could recall those seconds from before, walking through the castle towards his fate, when he'd almost dreaded having to show her.

But not now. Not anymore.

"You promised," he said. "But now I know. You change. You _will_."

He dropped his hand from her face but didn't move back. They stood there, locked together, for almost too long. For so long, in fact, that that impending ache, inevitable when he would eventually look away, was stretched like unbreakable taffy. And he watched her plant her feet, suck in a sharp breath, and hold on, refusing to be the one to go first.

And so, at last, he turned _his _eyes away from _hers _and elongated his fingers against his thigh, taking a step back. His heart was pounding, all the way up through his throat. He was on the verge of speaking, as if a dam had burst just now, and he had all the words in the world to say.

"Do you know how many times I tried to see you, after that day?" he began, and it was easy, really. Like talking to himself. Like spilling out all of what he'd come to realise and understand. Simple, now that he could see more clearly. Of course he hadn't watched the rest of that damned memory today. He lived it _every _day, inside his own mind. It belonged to him, after all. And just knowing, just stepping so close to what she'd done, it had reignited the flame he'd felt that night at the Burrow, when Harry had tried to stop him from running off, succeeding in the end in stopping him on his path towards Paul...

But he shook his head to clear the deluge of memories, focusing instead on this one right now. On ending this.

"I had so many things I wanted to say to you after _that_," and he gestured sickeningly towards the pensieve behind Hermione. "See, I put too much faith in you. I believed you had the answers to everything. Even to who I was. But that's rubbish."

Her eyes watered as he watched her. But honestly, he found that he cared very little. That it mattered much less now that he had, and was _still_, hurting her. This was _her _fault. He was not to blame for her mistakes, no matter how much he'd tried to reason that maybe he really was, somehow...

"The truth is," he continued, "we aren't the same at all. And you don't know me like you thought you did. You don't get to be the reason that I'm hurt or even fucking angry. You're worse than that bloody locket, Hermione! Because you actually _knew _me. And you said that you _loved _me! And yet you still-still..."

She bit her lip and sobbed suddenly, physically trying to hold back. She must not have wanted him to see her cry. It was curious, in a way, that she'd try to remain so strong as he spoke so freely, for the first time perhaps since that night at Shell Cottage, when he'd told her everything about the locket, what it had really done to him and what she had said...

"I may not think I'm much sometimes," he continued, "but I have enough goddamn self respect to realise that my mistake wasn't in something I did to lose you. It was in _you_, for being enough of a-a..." and he fumbled for a word, opting to skip it altogether as the words he wanted to say next poured out of him without warning, "to _lie _to me and treat me like dirt after everything we went through together. After I told you how I felt! I gave you everything I had, and you spat in my fucking face for it. So you didn't want to be with me? You found out I wasn't what you wanted? Fine. But have the sodding decency to come to me face to face and fucking tell me... without me having to catch you making an arse out of everything we had behind my back!"

"Ron..." she cried, not even quite a whisper, but he began to pace, hands shaking and pulse racing as he pressed onward.

"I can honestly say I'll be better off never having to see you again. But I can take it. I've built a bloody wall and you'll never get through it. Never again."

Her sobs broke, echoing off the walls, and he caught her hiding her face behind her trembling hands.

"Damn it, Hermione," he said, suddenly, as he turned back to face her again, pausing mid-pace a few metres away from her. "I wish it wasn't you! I hope that it really wasn't... but..." and here he'd tried so many times to turn things around, to hope for something he'd never be able to prove. It _was _her who had lied to him, robbed him of the life he thought he'd have. "But it _was _you!"

"That's not who I am!" she shouted, ripping her hands away from her face, tears streaming down her cheeks to run off the edge of her jaw.

His head was spinning. How could it be that he could hope things could change, with all his heart, but admit with everything else that it could never be so? It was completely and utterly illogical. He was still so absolutely in love with her. But he never wanted to see her again. He couldn't _let_ himself ever want to...

"You would have told me that same thing before you did it, wouldn't you?" he reasoned, steadying his breathing as he lowered his voice. "You promised you loved me. When I thought I might die from the pain of losing Fred, you swore you wouldn't leave me."

Fresh tears cascaded down her face as he watched her squint fiercely against them.

"But you did," he concluded, eyes locked with hers for a lengthy, meaningful moment. "You might not have fallen for Harry, but what you said to me inside that Horcrux, Hermione... it meant the same as what you said back in August, in that bloody memory," and he glanced towards the pensieve again, almost scowling at it. "It had been true then," he continued, "all along! It's mad, but I had some delusion that I was really only worth what you believed in me. So when I thought you weren't proud, or I didn't catch your eye, I'd lash out, when all I ever really wanted to do was crawl into a corner and vanish."

She watched him with such deep, unimaginable sadness, and it might have broken his heart, if it wasn't already torn to bits.

"But you aren't my horcrux anymore," he said, finally looking away from her, tense muscles aching as he rubbed a hand across his face. "My life does not revolve around you. Because you _made _it that way."

Perhaps it was a lie, in some ways... what had he been doing these past few weeks? She'd always been at the centre of what mattered. But he was looking towards the future now. To a future he'd never had to picture ever before, even in his darkest moments, even when he'd thought he had less than a chance to really be with her.

"I... I can be Ron without you, Hermione. I..." and he faltered, willing himself with all his own strength not to break down now, not to show her how much this was really costing him. "I might not like him much right now," he admitted, "but I have to _learn _how to... So, I will."

She trembled and swayed and he feared she might pass out. He wanted to stop. How he wanted to...

But he'd come this far...

"So, your one last bit of control was in shaping me into whoever this is," he said, gesturing towards his own shell of a person, "but you don't get to go on watching. You can't."

She wrapped her arms around her body and refused to look up or even blink in his direction. He took a small step back, because if he didn't, he might take a step forward...

"This was meant to end it, not to make it harder," he nearly whispered.

And he tried, for a moment, to find her eyes, lowered to the ground near her feet...

"You sh-should... try and get your memories back, however you lost them. I want to believe you can find something that I've missed," he went on, eyes focused on the frizzy top of her head. "And of course, if you did..."

He could sense her holding her breath, and he knew she was waiting for the what if, for the words of hope she so desperately needed right now. But he shook his head.

"But I can't believe there's a chance. For my own sake. Does that make sense?" And as she tilted her head every so slightly up again, he searched her tear stained face for a sign, but she gave him nothing. He knew that she didn't know how. Her face was blank with numb regret and no second chances.

And so, withdrawing from her completely, he turned away, moving towards the exit. But a few steps into his escape, he turned round again, and she gasped, tensing and clutching her own body with her trembling arms.

"You can keep it, the memory," he said, glancing back towards the pensieve, one last time. "Keep it as long as you like."

And this time, when he turned away from her, he gave her no hope that he'd come back today. Or really, that he _ever _would, unless she proved there was something more for him to come back for. But as he'd told himself, he couldn't afford to think like that. And he left all his hopes and possible futures at the door behind him, holding onto the one thing that looked disastrously likely - a long, empty future, without the unending love he'd once given his life to, without an ounce of faith in the person he'd once thought she was.

* * *

><p>She watched him go, until he'd slipped through the door and out into the corridor beyond. And she was left utterly alone, with the pensieve behind her... inside which Ron was doomed to a constant loop of reliving the moment of her betrayal. She could almost see him there, rewinding over and over again for all time. And that smile she'd seen, at the moment when he'd first heard her voice inside that memory... it was truth, because he <em>did <em>love her. And she'd been able to see that, to glimpse it for such a short moment, but a moment still. And that, in some ways, had been more than she'd truly expected to have.

He'd loved her so much that it had been visible in his very existence. And she'd not only taken that away from him, but left him more than alone - without her, and without his own heart, as well.

She collapsed to the floor before the pensieve, head pounding, little half-sobs echoing off the walls. The room seemed to close in on her, and she could not produce anymore tears, it seemed, overwhelmed by what she had seen and what he'd said. And now, as she knew he'd understood, she felt so much less than hopeless.

* * *

><p>Ron sat on the edge of his bed late that night, Harry folding his shirts into small stacks atop his own bed. A long breath stretched between them before Harry joined Ron, eyes on his profile, sitting close on Ron's bed with him.<p>

"Stop me from telling her I'm sorry," Ron blurted, almost instantly, and Harry studied him for a moment, curiously.

"Sorry for what?" he asked, incredulous. What could Ron possibly have to be sorry about?

"I shouted at her today," he said, as if admitting to a crime. "I got... bloody angry and didn't stop, and she was crying. I didn't want to stop..."

There was remorse there, but hurt as well, and the two did not blend well together. Like oil and water, they rested at odds with each other, and seemed to confuse rather than iron out the details that needed to be smoothed to stop aching.

"It's natural you should feel that way," Harry reasoned. "You never got the chance to say anything you wanted to after it happened, when you went to find her and-"

"I know," Ron cut over Harry, "but I feel so damn guilty."

His hands were trembling, and Harry watched him rub them together over his knees.

"Stop me from finding her and apologizing," Ron asked, turning to face Harry as Harry looked up to meet Ron's eyes. "Maybe she needs me to be angry. It's probably easier for her to stay away if she thinks I might shout in her face again if she comes up to me."

He gave a sad little half smile, and Harry swallowed down the lump in his throat at such a small acknowledgement of the chaos in which they now lived. He'd never imagined...

But it didn't matter now.

"Of course, I'll do whatever you need, Ron. Anyway, you shouldn't be apologizing for anything. Just leave it. You've... shown her the memory, yeah?"

Ron nodded and Harry returned it.

"Then forget it. I'll take care of anything that comes up..."

Ron sighed out a long, shaky breath and smiled at Harry fully.

"Thanks, mate," he breathed.

"Any time."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Saturday, September 19th...<strong>_

She entered the library with seeking, bloodshot eyes, cutting a path through the room with a steady, rhythmic beat to her footsteps. She was always elevated by a plan. And she certainly had one now, with so much work to do. Yesterday seemed miles away, and she had her head on now, level and almost clear through the settling smoke.

She spotted who she'd been searching for - Harry, sitting alone at a small table by lantern light. The library was unusually dull and gray today, windows darkened heavily by the dreary overcast of a rainy morning that looked like it would not actually transform into a proper day. It kept most of the castle subdued, bored, but occupied by their own lazy studies, or late in their beds as had seemed to be the case with half of Gryffindor Tower. But she'd watched Harry leave breakfast this morning with a yawn and too many books to _not _be heading off for the library... And if anyone would recognize the signs of a day at the library, it would always be her.

He looked up as she moved directly towards him, sliding the chair across from him out from under the table and taking a seat before either of them had spoken a word to the other. He adjusted his glasses warily and studied her for a moment as she lightly rested her own stack of books on her side of the table.

"Harry, we have to talk," she said, matter of factly.

"You watched it," he stated, "the memory."

"Yes," she said, shortly, and he nodded his reply.

"Ron told me, last night."

For a moment, they simply stared across the table at each other, as if distantly recognizing the echo of a wonderful friendship so close but still so far away from their grasp. She couldn't blame him for his overly cautious reserve, now that she'd seen that memory... She couldn't have blamed him for never speaking to her again. But here they were, and she had things to say, plans to make...

So, it was time to get started. And she pressed onward, just like every other time, like years of unriddling had taught her to do... Cage off emotion, focus on facts, solve the mystery... save them.

"I figure, I'll go in alphabetical order," she jumped in, smoothing a hand across the dusty, leather cover of the book on top of her stack. "Either I was imperiused, polyjuiced, or I needed to protect Ron, or both of you, from something."

Harry looked away from her now, focusing on the grain of the wood on the far edge of the tabletop... He was distancing himself from this, but she would not let it deter her. She straightened her back against her chair and slid book number one down from her stack, opening it gently.

"It doesn't explain the memory loss," she continued, eyes on her book, "but let's deal with one thing at a time, shall we? Besides, I think you're wrong."

Harry glanced up at her again at last, pity fully formed in his tired eyes. But he didn't understand where she was going with this quite yet... She knew that.

"I don't think I obliviated myself, Harry," she explained. "It doesn't make sense. It doesn't fix anything, and I would have known that..."

Harry's eyes turned a bit brighter and more inquisitive as he listened...

"It's too hurtful to both of you," she added. "Why would I put you through that?"

She'd hit a snag there, she could tell. Because as far as Ron and Harry could see, she'd put them through much worse than that... But still, Harry scratched at the side of his neck and nodded thoughtfully.

"I think you're right," he said, voice low and deep with remnants of sleep. "I was beginning to doubt it myself. It seems so... uncharacteristic a thing for you to have done."

But he paused, sighing softly as he shook his head.

"But... forgive me for not exactly being certain what characterizes you anymore..." he added, bitterly.

It hurt, but she could take it if it meant she'd be able to work through this, to figure it out... She nodded, lifting her head higher with each movement to keep from breaking down, because she might have been strong, but there was only so much she could endure in the presence of so much past here with Harry, so fiercely dragged away from her with a clouded mistake. And so, with a quick stretch of her fingers, she turned a page in her book and resumed her scanning of each line of finely printed text.

"What are you looking for?" Harry asked, watching her eyes dart across the page.

"I have no idea," she admitted, but she didn't draw her focus away from her books for a moment, scanning more rapidly with each passing second.

A long moment passed between them, and the distant patter of a light, consistent rain could be heard outside, against the tall, paned library windows.

But at last, Harry shifted against his chair.

"If I'm going to help you, we've got to come to an agreement," he said, quietly.

Hermione froze and nearly cracked her neck to look up at him, suppressing a gasp.

"Harry..." she mouthed, because she couldn't figure out how to make a sound.

He studied her so closely, and her eyes filled with tears. As blindly as she'd pushed forward before, forcing him to listen, she'd never expected him to really admit to wanting to help her, not to mention offering it this way to her now. She felt overwhelmed, suddenly, with even such a slight tinge of friendship, of a lifeline she could cling so desperately to in her last moments of hope.

"You'll _really_..." she finally choked, and Harry looked away to clear his throat.

"You can't intentionally see or talk to Ron again, for now," Harry began, laying out his rules and regulations. The distance now present in such a small word, _Ron_... such an important name... made her ache for years past, when they'd been at each other's throats over cats and rats or fancy parties...

"Go on," Hermione encouraged, hardly whispering.

"You can't talk to anybody about what we're doing. No one knows what really happened between the two of you, why you and Ron broke up. Ron's told two people in the world what really happened, and now a third, if you can count... yourself..." Harry shook his head, clearing out the clustered confusion of such a twisted plot. "If Ron asks, I'm going to tell him what we're doing. But it's got to come from me, alright?"

Hermione nodded shortly, waiting for more.

"You have to remember that I'm doing this for _Ron_. I told him I'd take care of everything, and I will. I'm doing this, first and foremost, to rule _out _whatever chances there could be of something more sinister here, of another motive or reason for your actions. That's not to say I wouldn't be bloody thrilled to find some clue or..."

He trailed off and Hermione watched him closely. Of course, she'd known this would be his way, and his reasons were so incredibly noble and honourable, as always...

"But that's not the point," he sighed, moving onward. "You also have to promise me that you'll remember what you saw, in Ron's memory, and not forget that, as far as we can see or figure out so far, you really did what Ron saw you doing. That it really _was _you."

"We start with nothing and add whatever we find," Hermione clarified.

"Exactly."

Harry's eyes bored into hers and she swallowed gently, reduced slightly under his stare. But she could find such a strong imprint of her _brother _in Harry's eyes now, and she would do anything he asked her to do. She knew that. She'd known it all along.

"Alright, I accept," she said.

Warmth surrounded her like a comforting blanket as Harry finally relaxed, corners of his mouth turning up very softly as she exhaled. This was almost a _smile_. This was familiar. She returned his gesture with a tiny smile of her own before breaking eye contact and smoothing her hand over the open pages of the book before her.

"So, alphabetical order, you say?" Harry began. "I suppose I should start by tell you what I researched about the imperius curse, back in August..."

She nodded, elevated by the knowledge that he'd been here before. That he'd fought for her. But of course he had. And she wondered, as Harry adjusted his glasses more securely over his nose, how much Ron had done weeks ago as well, to try and save them, one last time...

* * *

><p>Harry walked briskly along corridor after corridor, shoulder to shoulder with Hermione. It felt so much like old times that it was almost funny. He found himself smiling secretively to himself several times as they approached the main collection of rotating staircases, pausing at the bottom for one to come round and fetch them up to the next floor.<p>

And it occurred to him, as things had settled some between them over a common interest full of notes and plans, that he had things he should ask her.

"Hermione," he started, and she turned to look at him as he spoke, "any leads on your parents, recently?"

"Oh," she sighed, looking away again. "I've been in contact with the Auror department. They conducted a search for them as a favour to me over the summer. But now, a small group has gone to Sydney for some sort of international relations conference, and they're sending out two Aurors to look around Annandale. They have a few leads on them there. I think it's looking good..."

She straightened her back as the a staircase clicked into place before them, and Harry had the impression that she was hiding a good deal of her worry for her parents from him. She was walling off parts of herself, not that it was so very foreign a concept to him. He'd seen her act this way before. But he had also been able to talk to her if he'd wanted to, back when things hadn't been...

He straightened up as well, following her up the stairs, and he knew that he had to stay focused. So, he'd done all of this before. He'd researched and spent countless hours pondering, begging for another option, for some way to explain Hermione's wildly out of character behaviour. But he'd drawn up a blank before. And he'd left it alone for Ron's sake, once he'd realised how dreadfully likely it was that she'd actually done what he'd seen-

He felt sick just remembering it.

"I..." Hermione started, as they reached a crossroads of corridors. "I think I'm going to have another look at that memory."

"Now?" Harry asked, an automatic fear rising at the idea of such a terrible thing. And the memory replayed in flashes against his own will as he thought through what she was about to do. He almost shuddered as she paled slightly and nodded.

"I need to focus on the details now, instead of taking in the whole picture," she explained. "There's got to be something there..."

Harry nodded very slowly, ready to escape.

"Go on," she said, obviously sensing his discomfort. "This is the part I do alone."

They froze there, at the top of the stairs, accepting this new shift between them. And though he didn't forgive what she'd done, he had to go on hoping she hadn't really done it at all... didn't he? If he ever wanted her back as his sister, he supposed that he did.

"For us, Hermione," he started, "I really hope you find something I missed."

"So do I," she said, solemnly. And without another word, she turned her back on Harry and continued down the long corridor to their left, robes swaying at her ankles as she clutched her books tightly, keeping a rigid pace towards the Room of Requirement.

Harry watched her for a bit too long, and finally, he turned to continue up the stairs towards Gryffindor Tower, with far too much on his mind...

* * *

><p><em><strong>Saturday, October 17th...<strong>_

Ron had just saved yet another goal and was panting, rolling his shoulders as he balanced atop his broom at the goals again. He scanned the air high above for Harry, locating him quickly as he zoomed, with fierce determination, towards the ground. Ron's body relaxed as he watched, knowing the game was already won as Harry whooshed over the crowd, extending an arm towards a glinting bit a gold, flitting in front of him, tauntingly. But before Harry had even caught the little bugger, Ron had removed his helmet and was shaking his hair free.

"Gryffindor wins!" came a shout from the stands, and Ron smiled as he plummeted towards the pitch, skidding his landing through the centre and abandoning his broom before lifting Harry off the ground with a strong right arm.

"Good game, mate," Ron said, slapping Harry across the back before shouldering him off balance. Harry laughed as his teammates dashed up to him, cheering and shouting.

"Old times," Harry grinned, giving Ron a nostalgic look before disappearing into a sea of arms and Gryffindor robes.

Ron's smile faded as he retrieved his broom and backed away from the celebrations, eyes going up, against his will, to scan the crowd for _her_...

The moment he caught sight of her, high above, staring straight back at him, he looked away again, frustrated with his own lack of self control.

"Stop," he ordered himself, and he turned his back on the stands to escape, heading quickly off for the changing tents.

* * *

><p>Harry entered the Gryffindor tent several minutes later with a flurry of excited teammates, seeking out Ron where he stood at the back, stripping his leather gloves off his fingers.<p>

"Party in Gryffindor Tower, as expected," Harry said, sinking with a thud onto a bench behind Ron.

"Right," and Ron sank down next to Harry to work the laces of his boots a bit looser, massaging the back of his neck with his long fingers.

The crowd moved about the tent, suddenly immersed in their own replays and plans to sneak up a fresh batch of fire whiskey for the evening's celebrations...

In their quiet haven, Ron turned towards Harry and breathed calmly, thinking things through before speaking. A new thing for him, but worth a try.

"You've been seeing her," he said, not in an accusatory way, but cautiously curious nonetheless.

"I have," Harry answered, ready for this conversation. And Ron was sure that Harry had known this would happen, eventually.

"Why?" Ron asked, simply.

"We're just... making sure. She has to know, for herself. You know that about her," Harry said. "She has to try everything, exhaustively, before she'll believe it."

"She saw the memory," Ron reasoned, unwilling to commit to any small ounce of hope, now that he'd managed to almost completely wall off the possibility, for his own health...

"Several times now, I'd guess," Harry added, and Ron tensed at the idea, a swirl of emotions threatening to hit him now. But he quelled each and every one of them, nodding instead.

"Okay, just be careful," Ron said. "I don't want you to get so far into this that you forget..."

He shrugged, feeling borderline guilty now for what he'd been about to say. But Harry, as usual, had read Ron's mind.

"I did my own research already, right after it happened," Harry said. "You knew that. And I know you did yours, too."

Ron knew his silence would serve as an answer, so he let it linger, waiting for more.

"_We _had to know. Now it's her turn. And I can help her get there faster by telling her what I already worked through, and by showing her what's not possible," Harry explained. "She's about to give up on the possibility of the imperius curse, which leads us to polyjuice."

Ron looked away, feeling suddenly ill, and he tried to focus on something else, even as Harry spoke to him.

"You know Hermione. She's got stacks and stacks of books on every possible subject that could serve as a way of explanation, and-" but Harry suddenly stopped, and Ron could feel Harry's eyes taking in the details of his profile. "You don't want to know any of this, do you."

"I want to," Ron said, throat very dry, "but I can't. Do what you need to do, and let me know when it's over, yeah?"

"Are you sure you're alright with-"

"Harry, you're right," Ron cut in, turning to face Harry again. "I do know her. Sod what she did. I know. And someone's got to do this. Thank you for protecting me, really. If you didn't take this on, I guess _I'd_have to, and..."

"You wouldn't _ever _have to," Harry said, solidly. "You're my best mate. No one hurts you without going through me first."

Ron grinned at last, nudging Harry with his padded shoulder.

"Don't get all mushy on me now," he said, scratching the back of his neck as Harry grinned in return.

"Well, hurry up, then," Harry said. "Don't want to be late for the party and be the last ones still sober."

Ron shook his head, laughing.

"Bloody hell, you'll need me to carry you up to bed tonight, won't you."

"What are best mates for?" Harry grinned again, standing and stretching before brushing past Ron and rejoining the crowd now headed out of the tent towards the castle, their merry voices echoing up the hill as they went.

* * *

><p><em>Sail, don't try to steer, just sail<br>You can be a hell of a force  
>With the button to a broken man<em>

_Because you know I'm impatient  
>I've been hounded down before<br>The diving bell keeps surfacing  
>It doesn't ring anymore<em>

_The grasping hand is never full  
>And the perfect life is just damaged goods<br>And you should have talked...  
>Because in twenty years you'll be a mute<em>

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:** Um, was that the longest chapter so far? It may have been... oops. That one got out of hand... Next two are long as well...  
><em>


	11. You Make Me Sleep So Badly, Part 2

_**A/N:**__ Wow. I don't really know what to say here. I've gone through phases of wanting to post some explanations here about my characterization choices, but some of that would turn very quickly into spoilers for anybody who is still reading this story. And anyway, I'm not sure that's really what I want to say..._

_Overall, I guess I just want to say that I appreciate and respect every opinion that I have received for this fic. My intention in writing and posting fanfiction has never been to divide or to cause a rift or any negative feelings between any HP fans and/or between myself and anyone who has been reading fic on this site._

_I have always believed that we can all get along while still having our own opinions about these characters. I just love them too much not to think about them constantly, which results in silly little plots for ridiculous stories like the one I'm writing here. I will never ever claim to be a 'good' writer, and I am certainly humbled by others within this fandom every single day. You are all lovely and wonderful, and how amazing is it that we get to share such beauty and such fantastic art between us, art which represents something we love and crave and can't get enough of._

_I really do appreciate anyone who has taken the time to read any of the nonsense I have written here or anywhere. Honestly, you are all amazing. But I have gotten an increasing number of reviews that do not allow PMs or are posted by people not logged in or just anonymously. That is fine, and understandable. But if anyone does wish to discuss characterization or plot or just anything else fandom related, especially something you may feel strongly about, I am PM-able at any time. That is also where I think other discussions that do not relate to what I'm posting could take place. I don't mind what's happening in the comments section on here, and please, do not take this as me making any requests of anyone who has been reading and reviewing. You all rock and thank you. Carry on however you like._

_But, I do agree that the reviews this round got a little crazy in that it became almost like an argument or a war between readers, and I certainly don't want that. I just feel like… even despite our different opinions, we're all here because we love HP, yes? And particularly because Ron/Hermione are the best couple ever written! These characters have brought us all together on common ground and given us a unique opportunity to make fantastic friends that we would never have met outside of our love for Harry, Ron and Hermione. It's been an absolute gift to me, the people that I have found over the past four or five years that I have really gotten to know well. _

_With all of that said (and if you are still here this far down my A/N! ha), I just wanted to thank everyone, in a very general sense, for carrying on with this fandom, even now after the books and movies have completed, and to also thank you for loving Ron and Hermione enough to have stumbled into my fic and read it, regardless of whether you liked or disliked my writing or the story I'm building. It is astounding to me to have found so many amazing people here, and I know that that will continue for years to come. Fandom is such a beautiful place for me. It always has been, and I know that it always will be. And that is why I am still here. Thank you xx_

_And just as a quick apology, yeah, this chapter is a day late :( Things were a little hectic both mentally and realistically, as I was only briefly at a computer yesterday with not enough of an opportunity to post. But I am hopefully back on track. And I truly do hope that you enjoy this next chapter :)_

_Companion track:  
>The Joy Formidable, "A Heavy Abacus" -<br>www . youtube watch?v=-pwIr-j2b2I [remove spaces]_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four - You Make Me Sleep So Badly, Part Two<strong>

_**Thursday, 13th August...**_

Harry stood flat against the back of the Burrow, should blades cutting into the rough, earthy wood that slanted down towards the iron-hinged door into the crawl space below. There was a war inside him, always was, of what was _really _the right thing to do, after all. But the truth was, she'd been there too many times, through too much, not to be given a chance.

He'd been buried in books for twenty-four hours, and his bloodshot eyes were slightly magnified by the lenses of his glasses. There was a pattern here, and he was sure he understood why he felt what he did... and why now.

First came shock, at finding Ron crumpled against the tile of the showers at the Ministry and trying to piece together his broken sentences, to fill in the gaps of a story that seemed too wildly out of character to be plausible. Second came anger, though intentionally masked somewhat as he led Ron away from everything, to a secluded spot amidst the Burrow's country grounds. And then, there was disappointment. Shame at not seeing things for what they were earlier, to shield Ron from such immense pain. Then, loyalty towards Ron, his best mate, his brother... hardened wills and determination. And at last, doubt. So much effing doubt.

After his conversation with Ron the day before, he felt a strange sort of new direction, knowing that he could not have possibly worked everything out already, could not have thought of every single scenario with enough attention to detail to be certain of anything. As he'd said, there was always a chance...

If he could look into her eyes and see the truth...

Or.

If he could _show _her. So, he'd done something... not entirely proper. But if he could actually show her what Ron had said afterwards, how he'd cursed her and shouted to the world how much he despised her... only to reveal the true depth of damage that she'd done by the fact that he still went on loving her, through his own regression, so far back into a past of hidden fears and doubts...

So, Harry had removed his own memories of those minutes just afterwards, other scattered moments from her betrayal until now. He'd placed them carefully in a vial, made an appointment with a pensieve... and all he had to do was drag her to see it for herself. He could watch her, study her reactions, gauge for himself if she was being coerced or manipulated. Because he had only two options left, only two ideas that could redeem her: polyjuice, or a plot instigated by Paul Simmons, to tear them apart.

And so, fingers grazing the vial in his pocket to be sure it was still there, he pushed away from the Burrow and took several steps into the back garden before turning and disapparating.

It was raining in London. The sky was a dull gray, endlessly stretching in all directions, and his shoulders slouched as he approached her parents' house, scuffing his feet up the front steps. He knocked, and he held his breath.

His pulse quickened as he anticipated her approach, and he brushed his messy black fringe away from his glasses as he waited. But slowly, time ticked by too far, and he felt the sinking disappointment of having built himself up to something daring only to be deflated and unable to complete his mission. He knocked again... and again... but nothing. Frustration rising, he spun around and searched the street, as if he could find some answer there, some decision to be made. But, at last, in a fit of nerves, he ducked down off the front steps, behind a hedge, and disapparated again...

...only to reappear inside the front door of Hermione's parents' old house.

The house was silent and dark. No one was home, that much was certain. But he cautiously walked along the polished wood floors of the entryway nonetheless... up the carpeted steps, along the landing towards Hermione's room...

The door stood half ajar, and he pushed it open with a flat palm against the painted door. The room was cold and quiet, as if life had been sucked away from it. And, of course, her parents hadn't been found and returned from Australia. Not yet. And Hermione hadn't really been living here, either. She'd been staying with Ron, at the Burrow. And it was only a guess that she'd come here anyway, with no other options.

Harry sighed and shook his head. He wouldn't find his answers here.

And so, he had to cross this item off his to do list for the moment. The only problem was, he wasn't honestly sure when he'd be able to try again...

* * *

><p>Harry was pacing Ron's room when Ron entered, hair standing on end and a biscuit in his hand.<p>

"What?" Ron asked, freezing a few paces away from Harry. But when Harry shot him an apologetic grimace, Ron entered his room the rest of the way, shut the door behind him, and straightened his back to prepare for whatever bad news was in clearly store...

"Ron," Harry began, cautiously, "I've been thinking about it... and... I need to see... _Paul_."

Ron crushed the biscuit in his hand and trembled.

"Why the fuck-"

"Ron, I'm sorry," Harry said, approaching him quickly, "but listen. I need to be sure, don't you? I have to see the bastard's face when I tell him what he's done-"

"But he already knows what he's done!" Ron roared. "Sod it if she never told him I found out. He was going behind my back with her, and he bloody well knew it..."

"I know, I know," Harry said, gently, "but listen. Think about it. And... and I think you'll understand why this is so important, why I have to see him, just for a few minutes, just to be... sure..."

Ron knew, as he looked down into Harry's eyes, that Harry did not want to have to say the words, to whisper _hope _when it could so likely prove to be false. But Ron _did _understand, and he knew exactly why Harry had to do this.

And... fuck it, why _he _had to, too...

"I'm going with you," he snarled, brushing biscuit crumbs into his wastebasket before shoving his feet fitfully into his trainers.

Harry's wide eyes met Ron's as Ron reached for his watch on his bedside table and began to buckle it to his wrist, shaking...

"I don't think you should..." Harry finally said.

"Why not?" Ron shouted. "Because you're worried I might break my hand with Paul's face? Cheers, mate, that's really nice of you to be worried about me, but really, I'm _fine_."

Harry visibly swallowed as Ron breathed thickly through his nose.

"Ron, don't think I don't understand what this means to you, or how badly you want to hurt him for what he did. And you deserve to feel that way. You really do."

"But?" Ron snapped, as the word lingered, unsaid, in the air between them.

"I've calculated this. I've thought about exactly what to say and how to say it and..." he trailed off, adjusting his glasses as he looked away from Ron. "You remember when Snape taught me Occlumency?"

"Yes." Ron was growing impatient, blood boiling as Harry led him further away from impulse...

"Well, I also came to understand Legilimency, as Snape was attempting to break through during our lessons. I may just remember a thing or two about it, and I feel relatively certain that I can get through to Paul and see... well, if not the truth, some piece of it that we can use to... to be sure."

Ron clenched a fist at his side and closed his eyes. Harry was right. Damn it, but he didn't want Harry to be right...

It _was _a brilliant idea...

But there was that unsaid word again... _hope_.

"Alright," Ron finally breathed, opening his eyes. "Alright, but if I ever see him, and you're not around, I'm breaking his nose, yeah?"

Harry smiled, fleeting and with a steady undertone of sadness...

"Absolutely," he said.

And with a final shared look and a nod between them, Harry took a deep breath and brushed past Ron, out of the room and out of sight.

Ron sank down onto his bed and clenched his trembling hands tightly together at his knees. He longed for a time when things had been so much simpler, when he'd felt one way and hadn't known if she'd felt the same and had worked himself up into impossible stress over the _not knowing_...

A _simpler _time. Ironic, perhaps. But looking back, it absolutely had been. He felt surreal, almost living in a nightmare day to day, like a boggart come to find him that wouldn't die or reveal itself for what it was to anyone. But, of course, that was absurd. And the more he shifted his idea of reality to include the new and painful truth of his circumstances, the more easily he'd be able to accept it.

There was so much hope of a lie here, buried underneath resentment... anger... fear of an unknown future... But, as he shifted to rest on his back atop his mattress, watching Cannons players zoom across his slanted ceiling, he listened to the soft tick of his watch, and he allowed himself to be mesmerized, breathing slowly to clear his head. Harry would do the right thing. And they'd know what they both needed to know, soon enough.

* * *

><p>It was late afternoon by the time Harry had tracked him down, wandering through the halls of the Ministry on direction from several different people along the way. Paul had been out on a raid but had been spotted, since his return, in between the showers and the de-briefing rooms, between a break room and his office upstairs, and again down in the library. And so, Harry was growing slightly exhausted by the time he actually located Paul, ducking through a doorway into what looked like a research lab of some sort, on a back hall of the Ministry which Harry had yet to actually explore, before today.<p>

"Hey!" Harry shouted, breaking into a light jog down the empty hall, towards Paul.

Paul froze and furrowed his brow as he ducked back out of the door to look down the hallway at Harry, approaching with an intentionally blank look plastered to his face.

Harry watched as Paul seemed to panic for a moment, pushing against something on the other side of the door, something beyond Harry's line of vision. And Harry slowed to a walk as he stared up into Paul's shocked face, trying to keep his cool. This man had been a key ingredient in breaking apart something that was supposed to be perfect. Harry wanted to rip Paul's heart out of his chest...

"To what do I... uh, owe the pleasure?" Paul nearly stammered, almost narrowing his eyes as Harry came to a halt only a few feet away from Paul, who now abandoned the door he was formerly holding ajar, allowing it to snap closed as he straightened, at least six inches taller than Harry.

"I wondered," Harry began, forcing his rising disgust into the background as he breathed deeply between phrases, "if I might have a quick chat with you?"

Paul blinked at Harry.

"If I recall, we're not in the same division or department, and you're still in training," Paul said, diverting the conversation to work, though it was transparently obvious that this meeting was not about work at all... "I've got a lot going on at the moment. What's up?"

"This isn't about that," Harry said, coolly, "but it's still rather important as it concerns someone very close to me. Two people, in fact. I only need a few minutes of your time. Please."

Paul's expression belayed such obvious signs of discomfort, and Harry took far too much pleasure in watching him squirm as his eyes darted, trying and failing to find a way out. At last, he sighed, and he crossed the hall to another room, opening the door.

"Alright, in here," and Harry followed Paul inside the dark room, standing by the exit as Paul lit several lanterns and shifted two chairs to sit across from each other, in the centre.

Watching him, Harry felt almost sadistic, taking pleasure in every off balance movement, every time Paul nervously cleared his own throat. But finally, as Harry sat across from Paul and found himself face to face, Harry could see the annoyance and condescension flowing freely over Paul's features. Harry repeated his plan inside his own head, focusing to avoid breaking his own rules and punching Paul across the jaw himself.

No point dallying around, Harry opted to catch Paul further off guard by cutting straight to the point.

"You've recently been involved in an affair with my best friend's girlfriend."

Paul paled, but showed no other clear signs of shock. Until he opened his mouth to speak and lost his words before he could say them.

"I'm not here to beat the shit out of you," Harry said, "even though I probably should be."

"Hey," Paul suddenly started, on the defense, "I found out yesterday that she'd told Weasley what was going on. I'm not seeing her anymore, anyway. But I'm not exactly sure why you're here then, if you aren't attacking me for something... something that probably isn't really your business anyway-"

"I have so many things to say to that, I don't even know where to start," Harry scoffed. "First of all, how the hell is it not my business when my best friend cheats on my other best friend with a scumbug Auror like you who probably doesn't feel an ounce of remorse for what he's done in the first place?"

And this was it. This was where Harry had to concentrate. Every sign, every angle... every movement or visible thought... This was the puzzle he had to put together, and he carefully, gently, moved in closer, as if secretly inspecting the scene of a crime. He'd learned his job well, and he'd never forgotten what it had felt like to have someone try so damn hard to look into your deepest fears and most closely guarded personal moments...

"You have no idea how badly you hurt him with what you did," Harry continued, watching Paul's minute responses with close scrutiny. "He was in _love _with her. Have you ever been truly in love before, _Mr Simmons_?"

Paul sighed heavily and looked away from Harry's searching eyes, running a hand through his much-too-neat black hair.

"It takes two people, you know," he sneered, "to do what we did. She didn't want him. She wanted _me_. And she made a choice."

"You're a _prick_, Paul," Harry suddenly spat, eyes narrowed and breath coming, all of a sudden, in uneven bursts. "And you're damn lucky I stopped Ron coming here. He would have likely strangled you with his bare hands."

Harry could picture it, so very clearly. And savagely, he almost wished he'd let Ron come with him after all, just so he could watch Paul's panicked face, been able to witness him cowering in a corner as Ron swore violently at him...

But then, Harry winced... Paul was a fully trained and qualified Auror, and he now seemed completely at ease with the idea of another man's attack. He didn't even blink after Harry's angry words, didn't even seem to be phased... He was warming up now, morphing into someone who didn't give a shit.

Fucking arsehole.

"And what about _her_? What's he done to her, then?" Paul asked, crossing his arms pompously over his own chest.

"Well," Harry breathed, through gritted teeth, "that's rather a lot more complicated... isn't it. Last I checked, Ron hadn't spent half his life falling in love with _you_."

"Why are you here?" Paul demanded, sitting back in his chair with an air of dignity that didn't reach beyond his eyes, where it started and stopped with his pathetic attempts.

"How did it happen, you and Hermione?" Harry asked, nearly choking on her name.

"I dunno. However these things _do _happen," Paul shrugged. "We saw each other here at the Ministry, from the beginning. She was smart. She took an interest in my work. We just got on well. And then she was showing up at one of our labs upstairs to correct the new defensive spellwork I'd put painstaking effort into developing, and next thing I knew..." he shrugged again, and a hint of a grin flashed across his face before Harry had the chance to mentally chain his wrists to the arms of his chair. And for a moment, he was clenching a fist in preparation...

But Paul opened his mouth to speak again, and Harry regained his focus rapidly...

"But it was just a fling, you know? I really liked her, thought she was..." but he trailed off, evidently not comfortable enough with the situation to go into _that_. And good thing. Harry's pulse shot off running as he swallowed through his growing rage. "Anyway..."

"Why did it end?" Harry managed to ask.

"Eh," Paul sighed, "we talked it over and we were both sort of wanting something simple. A relationship isn't simple."

"You used her," Harry spat. "Right. That makes too much sense to me."

"It wasn't like that," and Paul narrowed his eyes all the way this time. "You think she wasn't using me for the same things? She got from me what she didn't have with your mate. But once she wasn't with him anymore, she didn't need those other things either. She wants to be alone for a while, wants to have her own life now-"

And suddenly, as Harry stood, he hardly realised what he was doing. The sound of his chair legs scraping across the floor could have stopped him, flashing him back to the reality of what he was doing. But he didn't give a damn now. And, grabbing a fistful of Paul's shirt, he yanked the taller man to his feet, watching his eyes widen with shock.

Clenching his fist as tightly as possible, he pulled down until Paul's nose was an inch away from his own.

"If you _ever _come around Ron," Harry growled, "or if he ever happens to find _you_, I won't stop him. If he tries to kill you with his _bare hands_, I won't fucking stop him. It doesn't matter what she did or didn't do. You said it best yourself - it takes _two _people, to do what you did. And you, bloody _prat_, are _one _of them."

Harry released Paul with as little grace as he could manage, setting him slightly off balance to stagger back for a moment. But Harry had seen and done what he'd come here to do. He'd kept himself in check, for the most part, and was rewarded with the sickening knowledge of her betrayal, no apology or signs of remorse from Paul, but no signs of foul play either. He could see it, the truth, and he was reasonably certain now that he had been walking too quickly down the wrong path.

He brushed past Paul and shoved open the door to their tiny room, relieved to take in a hungry breath of cooler air, wafting down the corridor.

"Thanks for the visit," he heard Paul say, his voice suddenly much less firm and sure. But Harry didn't turn back, setting his course for the quickest way towards an exit. Though he did sense Paul's eyes on him, all the way down the hallway... undoubtedly to ensure that Harry would not be returning for another go...

Because as much as Paul tried to hide it, tried to mask his nervousness with arrogance and sure-footedness, he was a bloody coward. A thief. And would probably stay the hell away from Harry and Ron for good, if he wanted to go on living...

* * *

><p><em>In the dark, before dreamless sleep<br>Cloaks that spot, that shiver, that breeze  
>Throws you in the dark<em>

_Now your world is here  
>Watch it disappear<em>

_And it all plays out  
>And it always comes around<br>The message fades but the mess prevails  
>You reckless thing, leaving you in our hands<em>

_All we have is this chance called memory_


	12. You Make Me Sleep So Badly, Part 3

_**A/N: **So sorry for the delay posting this chapter! It's been a hectic few weeks. **Next week's chapter will be posted on Wednesday or Thursday** because I'm just starting another new job and won't have enough personal computer time/access to post until then. Thank you all for being patient and understanding! xx_

__Companion track:  
>The Joy Formidable, "Whirring" -<br>http : / / www . youtube . com / watch?v=a2BUEzdjfpY [remove spaces]__

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four - You Make Me Sleep So Badly, Part Three<strong>

_**Sunday, 18th October...**_

Thunder cracked in the distance and the lantern atop the table next to Hermione flickered slightly as she breathed out.

"Are you going to do it?" Harry asked, for what had to be the hundredth time. She closed her eyes and sighed.

"I have to."

"But when, Hermione? It's been weeks."

"I know," and she opened her eyes to study him closely, across the library corner table where they'd been doing their research, tucked away and half-secluded near the restricted section entrance.

She'd been putting off the one remaining priority, and she wasn't honestly sure exactly why. If she believed, so resolutely, that she hadn't done what Ron had witnessed, then why was she so afraid to confront the one other person who had been involved, according to Ron's memory?

Paul was a mystery. Before the pensieve, Hermione had never seen him before in her life. But within Ron's memory, she'd been with Paul so intimately, and not just physically... the way they'd looked at each other and spoken to each other... And so, she had to have met Paul sometime over the summer... and fallen quickly for him.

Which was preposterous.

How could someone, objectively, who had spent half of her life falling in love with one of her best friends suddenly betray him for a person she'd just met? No matter how charming (and Hermione certainly hadn't found the Paul in that memory charming in the least), it was just impossible for her to imagine.

"I'll go on Friday," she heard herself say, and she sucked in a sharp breath as Harry raised his eyebrows across the table at her.

"Good," he nodded, and he moved to collect his books. "I'm sure you'll have no trouble sneaking off after your classes."

"Friday's a light day," Hermione almost whispered. "I've only got one class after lunch..."

And so, she was tumbling down into her own words, planning something she wasn't sure she was really ready for. But the truth was, she knew she wouldn't _be _ready for it. And all that she could really do was to push onward, keeping her love in the forefront, and her desperate hope for gaining it back someday. To know how truly and completely he had loved her, to know she might never get to feel that from him now... it was more than enough to compel her to jump head first into the fire. She'd do whatever it took. No matter what.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Wednesday, 21st October...<strong>_

Ron was actually starting to heal. No, really. He could get through most of his lessons in a day without thinking about her. He could push his past to the background and do what he had to do.

And it burned to know that he could. He'd never wanted to be able to, really. But he'd taken the difficult path towards recovery, over the chance to replay a sick order of events that led to a broken past. And there was a wall surrounding his heart that really might not be able to be broken down so easily. Not as easily as he'd once thought.

He knew she was busy. She lingered on a chance. But if he didn't think about it, he didn't have to know. She wasn't his business anymore. It didn't matter what she did or thought. It once had, more than anything else to him. It had once mattered so much what she thought that he'd sit up nights hoping to guess, or to somehow connect with her, to sail through his half-dreams into her brilliant mind and see if he'd have a shot. If the risk of telling her how he'd once felt was worth it.

And it had been.

Honestly, it was alright he felt so. Wasn't it? In his most cynical, pessimistic moments, he'd never allowed himself the thought of a chance, before last year. She was on another level, too highly regarded by his own heart to make him worth her time. But she'd given him what she _had_, however minuscule. And when it had been good, it had been perfect.

If he tried so very hard, he could remember the good bits on their own, like orphaned pieces of a fragmented past. And he was proud that he could. It meant he didn't have to grieve. Not so much... anymore. But their past was also growing hazy. And if he needed to, he could now simply _overlook _what they'd shared, if he remembered what she'd done. And oh how he did. Every night, he still remembered.

But he could close his eyes and fall asleep and not wonder how it was ever going to get better. He could, because that was the only way that it _was _going to. He didn't actually need her. She didn't want him. Not at all. Not anymore. And he had enough strength now in retrospect to know how wrong it all had been.

It didn't mean he wasn't still in love with her. It would probably _never _mean that. He'd go to his grave in love with a concept, a ghost of a person he'd once known. Perhaps she had died, been buried along with so many others after the war. Perhaps what she'd been to him had been sucked away gently in her dreams as she'd been wrapped in his arms... as he'd slept...

Perhaps she had never really existed to anyone but him.

But he sighed, and he studied, and he did his work... and he was Ron without Hermione.

He caught his sister's eye across the common room as she entered through the portrait hole, and he smiled. She paused to study him, still at a distance, and he nodded shortly. She didn't need to worry. He could feel the world settling again, new and slowly less confusing now as things started to reconcile. And when the portrait hole opened again, he recognized _her _by her ankles alone as she stepped through...

But he held his breath, and he studied, and he did his work... and he was going to be fine.

* * *

><p>Hermione had been following Ginny up from the library, and now, she was crossing the common room after Ginny, though she wasn't entirely sure what she was planning to say. There had been a time when Hermione had needed a friend who wasn't a boy, when she had been so thrilled to find herself in the company of Ginny Weasley, a girl whom she could really talk to, if she ever needed to. Sure, they were very different, but they were also much the same in some very important ways... most of the ways that really counted. But Hermione knew, since they'd returned to school, that Ginny had been intentionally ignoring her. And it wasn't as if Hermione didn't know why...<p>

Ginny was the only other person, outside of Hermione, Harry and Ron, who knew what had happened to break Ron and Hermione apart.

They were crossing the common room when she spotted Ron, sitting hunched over a stack of notes. But she whipped her head away and tried to stamp down a flood of emotions. It was a feeling she was getting used to. He never looked at her for long, and he didn't even seem to be having a difficult time of it anymore. Outwardly, he was getting better. But a pool of dread was settling in Hermione's stomach... she was losing everything, bit by bit. And what if, once she'd figured this out, he'd moved so far past her that he didn't even love her anymore at all? What if, even if she proved this memory completely incorrect, he was already in love with someone else... or no longer cared?

She sucked down a sob and followed Ginny up the stairs towards the girls' dormitory, clutching her books for strength. But as Ginny reached the door, she huffed angrily and shoved her way inside, rounding on Hermione before Hermione had even entered the room.

"What do you want?" Ginny snapped, bitterly. It was the first time since the beginning of term that they had found themselves alone, and face to face. Though they now shared a dormitory, there were two other girls there with them, and either Ginny had been making a point not to find herself alone with Hermione, or coincidence had kept them from crossing paths on the way to bed, with the presence of others to distract from their silent war.

"I know we can't be friends anymore," Hermione began, slowly.

"Damn right," and Ginny glared at her as she closed the door behind them with a soft click.

"But Ginny, you know me! Is it so easy to just believe that I could have... that I _would _have done such a terrible thing to him?" Hermione pleaded, clutching her books tighter still over her chest.

A long pause stretched between them, and Hermione flinched as she anticipated harsh words and thunderous curses, things Ginny could do or say back...

But, at last, Ginny sighed.

"No," she said, "it isn't easy."

Hermione caught her eye and the two shared a brief look of sadness before Ginny forced her eyes away again.

"After all those nights you cried over him," Ginny continued, "and I'd come and find you huddled up on your bed trying to pretend nothing was wrong, or sobbing in the showers over Lavender Brown when you thought no one else was there..."

Hermione's throat constricted with memories, actually longing for those days back. She would never have thought she'd want to go back there, to be sixteen again and making herself sick with nerves when he'd flash her a grin or... or at night, when she'd lie awake wondering and over analysing...

"I knew you loved him long before you ever admitted to it," Ginny sighed again. But she shook her head, seeking Hermione's eyes, more strongly this time. "But, Hermione, Harry's told me things... He told me about Paul, about what Paul said when Harry went to see him. He told me about you and how... He told me what you're doing together, that he still hopes to figure this out and to discover that it was all an elaborate set up by someone to pull the three of your apart. But... who would do that?"

"I... don't know," Hermione admitted, hating that she couldn't list names. She felt like such a failure, unable to solve this one mystery, and she was getting nowhere. She would never say so, not to anyone. But she'd found nothing yet to illuminate even another inch of her path.

"Ron's doing better, you know," Ginny said, suddenly, and a margin of bitterness had returned to her voice. "Thank you for staying away from him, by the way. It's helping. A lot."

Hermione knew that Ginny hadn't meant her words to hit as hard as they had, that there had been a true note of thanks there. But Hermione's world was cracking and crumbling with every mention of him. And she was unable to hold back completely, sucking in air too quickly before she spoke.

"I... I don't want you all to forget me," she cried, almost a whisper. And Ginny visibly melted for a moment before shutting down once more.

"Chin up," Ginny said, lifting her own chin as she moved closer, only to brush past Hermione for the door again, in a clear effort to escape... "People don't ever really forget the people who hurt them the most."

And she left the room, allowing the door to swing closed on its own, Hermione's own sobs muffling the sound of Ginny's retreating footsteps.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Friday, 23rd October...<strong>_

She'd brushed her hair back into a braid, polished her good shoes... and she'd discretely used the floo in McGonagall's office to escape, swearing about the soot that had marred her shoes once again almost immediately. If she had had her head on straight today, she'd have thought of that before polishing... She had to focus, or this would never go to plan.

It was actually silly, that she hadn't simply asked to leave the grounds for the afternoon. But a part of her wanted that feeling back, the daring, secretive moments of years past, of doing something you weren't supposed to be doing. Only it lacked its luster without Ron and Harry. Only... it wasn't the same, exactly, when the stakes weren't as high.

But maybe they were, in some other ways. Her _future _was surely at stake today. And she needed answers, as badly as she had ever needed them... Which explained, well... what she'd done to ensure she'd really get them...

She walked the polished marble floors of the Ministry, stomach bubbling with the morning's tea... all that she had attempted to consume. She was hardly eating anymore anyway. What was one more lightheaded day and an empty, queasy stomach... after all?

The Auror offices were an unknown to her. Was she supposed to feel a flash of familiarity, walking these halls? Would something snap or click into place when she saw Paul, face to face? Would she... _remember_... something?

She both dreaded and longed for this possibility as she approached one of the many bustling hubs in the midst of Auror headquarters.

And then, all of a sudden, like a punch in the gut, she saw him. Paul. Standing no more than twenty feet away from her.

She'd watched that memory... how many times? Too many. Plenty. Enough to know Paul anywhere, at the slightest glance.

She had never expected it to be this easy. She could not really be prepared, could she? He was _just there_, and she was trembling.

And then, he was turning in her direction, taking a step as he reviewed a stack of files in his hands. And she held her breath, realising with horror that he would recognized her instantly, right here, surrounded by people who had no idea...

But it was too late to run or hide. He glanced up. And he saw her.

"Hermione..." he breathed out, looking her over.

"Can we go somewhere private and talk?" she asked flatly, shaking from head to toe.

"Um," and he looked around, "we're a bit overloaded at the moment. Can we-"

"It's extremely important, and it needs to be now. Please," she cut over him, because she wasn't coming here for nothing. She wasn't going to walk away now that he was right here.

"Okay," he nodded, and he seemed to sense her urgency very clearly as she stared up at him. "We can find an empty break room, hang on," and he passed by her, heading down the hallway at a rapid pace.

She followed him, maintaining a bit of distance to keep from looking suspiciously desperate under the eyes of so many strangers all around her.

"In here," and he pushed sideways, to the right, through a half-opened door into a small, dark room. A large clock, hanging from the wall across the room, ticked loudly. Hermione closed the door behind them and they stood across from each other. She was much too nervous to risk sitting down.

Paul lit a lantern and without her even having to ask, he set about making them tea, using a set on top of a small tray against the left wall.

"Oh, thank you," Hermione said, nodding. Maybe this would be even easier than she'd anticipated. "Here, let me help you," and she moved to take the kettle from him after he'd charmed it, pouring the hot water into two tiny cups with trembling hands. Positioning herself just right, he couldn't see her hands as he scooped sugar cubes from the bowl on the other end of the tray...

Three drops, she repeated inside her own head. Three simple drops and he'll tell me everything.

Veritaserum had been the most difficult potion she'd made to date. It had involved an awful lot of shady business, theft, and secret visits to check the state of the potion, which she had brewed, once again, in the abandoned girls' lavatory where she'd first brewed polyjuice potion, with Harry and Ron... so very long ago.

"Sugar?" Paul asked her, and she realised, just then, how long she'd been standing there, trembling hands clutching the kettle, almost burning her now as she'd drifted away...

"Oh!" and she jumped, replacing the kettle on top of the tray, job done. "N-No. No, thank you."

And they took their cups and sat, face to face, across a small table from each other.

"So what's going on?" Paul asked, taking a long sip of his tea. He looked... nervous? Surely, he hadn't wanted to see her again, after they'd been mixed up together in such rubbish. After...

But then she was getting muddled again. She was forgetting what was truth and what was fiction, and how solid the line between the two had once been, for her...

"I need to talk to you about what happened, or didn't happen, between us," she stated simply. "You are Paul Simmons, correct?"

A control question, to gauge the effects of the potion on Paul as he continued to sip his tea. And, now that he was swallowing truth serum, to ensure that he wasn't polyjuiced...

"Of course I am," he said, studying her now with confusion as he lowered his cup to the table.

Good, then it was time to begin.

"I've lost my memory of this past summer, and I need to figure a few things out from you, if you don't mind," and she tried very hard to remove any note of emotion outside of a curious personal interest in her past. It was easier for her, and surely made for a better reaction from Paul. At least for now.

"Bollocks," he said, shaking his head. He didn't believe her?

Frustration swirled with her already much too heightened nerves, and she sighed out a tiny, almost inaudible breath.

"Ron Weasley. You remember him? He was my... we were together, and..." she trailed off, lingering on words she was so desperate to make true once more...

"Yeah?" Paul pressed, impatiently awaiting whatever she had to say next.

"I love him," she trembled.

"Well, no you don't," and Paul shrugged. Such a simple gesture, but made all the more disgraceful by the lack of importance such a gesture put on everything she'd come here for. "Or... you _didn't,_in the end. Maybe you changed your mind. It didn't last very long with you and him, did it. Must not have been that serious."

A flicker of anger passed through her, defense against everything she'd built through the years with Ron, and how could Paul undermine it so thoroughly with so few words?

"Of course it was serious!" she suddenly shouted, hair flying down from its braid to crinkle out at odd angles. "I don't know you," she nearly whispered, looking around the room, completely lost as she felt the presence of this _stranger _so close by, someone so unlike Ron and so much the opposite of who she wanted. "I wouldn't do this..."

"Damn," Paul said, eyes widening, "you really _have _lost your memory..."

"I told you," she breathed, swallowing thickly as Paul's fingers tapped against the sides of his tea cup.

"I'm not hacked off, or anything," he said, "if that's what you're-"

"No!" she shouted as she stared at him, incredulously. "That's NOT- it wasn't me! It simply wasn't!"

He sighed again as he watched her, shaking his head.

"Blimey, this is a predicament, isn't it..."

She was losing her cool, and she'd hardly said a word. She had to get herself under control. She was losing her chance...

"Okay, let's say that I _was _with you, just for the sake of argument," she tried, breathing thickly and gripping her own tea cup tightly to still the trembling of her hands.

"You _were_," Paul said, softly. "I remember, even if you don't. God, what happened to you? What made you forget a whole summer?"

"I don't know, and that's what I'm trying to figure out," she said, bracing herself. Because he couldn't be lying now, and she knew that, even if _he _didn't.

The truth. That was, after all, what she'd come here for, wasn't it? Well. No, not entirely. She'd come here to hear what she wanted to hear. And now that it was heading dangerously close to another truth altogether, to the one she had spent so much time and energy refuting... what did she have left if he told her everything, under the influence of veritaserum, and it matched Ron's memory of her, precisely?

"What do you remember about me?" she asked, shutting down all over again for the sake of the chance she'd come here to take...

"I remember meeting you here at the Ministry," Paul began, and a note of sadness was suddenly there, something that she hadn't expected. "We worked together for a while, and you were so brilliant and clever, and we just got on really well."

She held her breath as her chest constricted painfully.

"There was something between us, more than friendship, and I could sense it... so we just..." he paused and looked her over in something close to scrutiny. But then he shrugged and looked away, sighing gently. "You weren't altogether happy with your relationship with Weasley, and you came to me regularly to get away and to... to work. But it wasn't just that. So... we started seeing each other more and more often and pretty soon... I dunno." He shrugged again and she melted against the back of her chair.

"Pretty soon what?" she whispered.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he said, at last. "I really am, actually. Because I shouldn't have let it go so far. It's not that you didn't want to be with me. You did. You said so. But I knew it wasn't a permanent thing. I knew we weren't going to last and that you were just... happy to be carefree, for a while. But that wasn't you. That wasn't who you were, deep down. And I sensed that even from only knowing you for a few months."

"You're... sorry?" she squeaked. It was all so wrong. She'd expected him to fight back, to be the bastard Harry had described him as. But today... He'd had time to think about it, and what? He regretted it? He felt _sorry _for her now that she'd lost her memory?

"Well, yeah," he said, meeting her eyes. "You're a great person. You have a lot of potential. I thought, at the time, that being with me was opening your eyes to other things. You'd spent so much of your life with the same two people. Maybe you didn't know you had any other choices. But that wasn't the right way to do it, and especially now that you can't remember..."

"Tell me something," she suddenly demanded, "something only a person who'd been with me the way you say you were would know about me."

His eyes widened almost imperceptibly before he looked away from her, tapping his fingers against his tea cup again. And he took another long sip as a distraction before lowering his cup and scratching his jaw.

"You've only got one fancy bra - a lace one almost the exact same color as your skin," he said.

Her breathing became much too uneven and shallow as she waited silently for more.

"And um," he continued, "you've got one little freckle just here," and he pointed to a spot on his own chest, on the right, just below his nipple.

He was right, of course, and she could no longer breathe. He couldn't know that! He just couldn't! Because he was _Paul Simmons_, the man from Ron's memory, a memory that had to be fake! And if _she'd_been polyjuiced, she'd have to have been under for much too long and Ron would have figured it out and- and!

She pressed her lips together and pushed back away from the table, stumbling as she stood. She couldn't stay here. She couldn't hear another word from him now.

She choked back her tears as she crossed the room, wrenching the door open. But he stopped her, suddenly standing behind her and reaching forward, hand on her arm.

"I really am sorry, and I hope you can get your memories back, for your own sake," he said, but she tore her arm away from him, rushing out of the room and turning towards the elevators, heart thumping wildly. Black spots popped, obscuring her vision and closing in. And she only just made it inside the next thankfully empty elevator...

Gasping for air, she leaned forward, dropping her head, hands on her knees. And she breathed as deeply as she could to keep from passing out, shaking violently.

Maybe it wasn't enough, but it felt like more than. Maybe she still had a chance of finding answers hidden too deeply for her to dig up just yet, but just then, it felt like the end. Ron was moving on. He was healing. And she was falling down into an endless pit with no way to climb back out again.

And as the elevator came to a stop, doors opening for her, she looked out with a dizzying new perspective. Others knew her much better than she now knew herself. In four months, she had lost her grasp on her own character. She needed those memories back, as much as she wanted to go on forever without ever having to face them.

* * *

><p><em>This much delight<br>Fills columns to new heights  
>All these things about me, you never can tell<em>

_Colours run prime  
>Paint a picture so bright<br>All these things about me, you never can tell  
>You make me sleep so badly, invisible friend<em>

_Turn the dial on my words  
>I can feel them fall short<br>Turn the dial  
>Chime along, chime along<br>Watch these hands move apart  
>Turn the dial on my words<em>


	13. You Take Form with Ink & Blood, Part 1

**A/N: **__I just want to warn everybody that it's probably going to take until **a week from Tuesday to post the next chapter of this story**, both to get us back on schedule and to devote proper time to what is going to be an absolute beast of a chapter to write. I have written a good deal of it already, but it was actually part of what I wrote before I even started posting this fic on this site. Therefore, it is going to need some tweaking, some serious inspection, and an awful lot of thought and care. In order to give you the best experience in these next few updates, I need to be much more particular about how I present the next few chapters, particularly the very next one :)__  
><em>_

__I hope you all will forgive me for the impending delay and understand that for the sake of providing the quality that you all deserve (thank you so SO much for continuing to follow this story! It means SO much to me that people are enjoying it!), I need to be more meticulous with how I proceed. Thanks very much for your patience and see you all on **May 1st**!__

**__Companion track:  
>The Joy Formidable, "The Everchanging Spectrum of a Lie" -<br>http : / / www . youtube . com / watch?v=ONlLmXuZBI0 [remove spaces]__**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five - You Take Form with Ink and Blood, Part One<strong>

_**Friday, 30th October...**_

Hermione was pacing, wringing her hands. The library was cold and dark at this time of night on a Friday, just before a Halloween weekend. No one cared to study. But she wasn't here to study. In fact, it was alarming, in some ways, just how little time she had devoted so far this term to the things that used to matter to her the most.

Harry was watching her with a look of annoyance. He appeared to be on the verge of shouting, but she suspected he wanted to give a chance, to arrive at the same sickening conclusion that he had by now, surely.

It was all over. They had been on a week long rampage through books and articles, Ministry paperwork, illegally borrowed logs of files from the Auror department... It was not only hopeless - it was staggeringly so. There were always pages unturned, always moments she could not account for. And that was the real struggle - coming to terms with the fact that her memories were not going to just slip back into place, and that she could not find any reason for anyone to have wiped them clean. Nothing that made any sense. And even if they _had_, if she'd been obliviated, the chances of recovering what she'd lost were now slim to none.

She needed those memories. But she couldn't have them.

She'd been going to a sort of memory recovery therapy at St. Mungo's, special permission from Madame Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall after Hermione had explained, with little to no detail, how she'd suddenly awoken to find bits of her memory missing. But it was going exactly where she'd expected, pessimistically - which meant that it was going _nowhere_. It wasn't common to be able to ever recover memories after such a skilled obliviate... or whatever other horrid and lesser known curses could have been used this time. And she'd reached the end of her options, but she still kept pushing onward, hoping for a miracle breakthrough.

And so now, she paced. She refused to look directly at Harry at all. As long as she never said it, it didn't have to be real... did it?

* * *

><p>He was beginning to lose his patience. She would not look at him. And he knew exactly why. And he was growing increasingly weary of it tonight, when this should have been over.<p>

Finally, she sat across from him again and opened a book at random, frantically scanning its pages with heavily ink-stained fingers, stray wisps of her hair wildly flying about as she read.

Harry paused, waiting for the second shoe to drop. But it didn't. And she looked up, biting her lip.

"Maybe there's something else, in another book we should check out again from in the restricted section," and she closed the one she was perusing, ready to run off again...

He couldn't take it. He felt his temperature rise with impatience.

"I'll just-" she started, but he moved too quickly.

He slammed his hand against the tabletop with great force, ignoring the pain as she gasped, ears ringing as the sound he'd made echoed in the air between them.

"This is the end of the road!" he shouted, and she stared across at him, clearly holding her breath. "It's over now, don't you get it? !"

She tried very obviously not to blink and he sighed, propping his elbow on the edge of the table and lowering his forehead to his hand. This was a sodding mess.

"Damn it, I wanted so badly to believe we'd find something, that I'd actually started to let go!" and he lifted his head to look across at her again... "Like we already _had_! But this is _it_!"

She trembled as she watched him glaring across at her. He was gone now, and he knew that she knew it, at last. There was no longer a flicker in his eyes. No more hope for regaining their past. His forearms clenched tightly, veins standing out against his temples as he ripped his eyes angrily away from her.

"You meant _everything _to him! To me as well, you know? But we _can't _fix this! We can't solve it like all of our other mysteries and puzzles, don't you see?"

His eyes burned with angry, heartbroken tears as she pressed her lips together.

"Don't come around us, Hermione," he said, suddenly shaking from head to toe. "Don't."

And he stood on unsteady legs, straightening his back before turning away from her, disappearing down the hallway in a fog of truth.

* * *

><p><em>Harry was right.<em>

The truth in those three tiny words rang out, much too clearly.

She'd been sitting against her headboard, curtains pulled tight around her bed. Notes and books and files were strewn out all around her. She felt sick... mental... irrational and maniacal. She could not undo this. She could not solve the mystery or piece back together the puzzle, just as Harry had told her. All signs pointed glaringly towards what she had done. What she was now faced with _believing _she had done.

She must have actually... really... truly...

She now saw herself as capable in ways she'd never dreamt. She was really able to hurt them, to do something so directly the opposite of all the things she wanted right _now_. Her desires and dreams and hopes and longings were nothing compared to where she had ended up. All this time... _years _wishing Ron would notice her, wishing she could just _say _what she wanted to and be with him how she cynically feared she never would. She'd had it, and she'd let it go. It was as unclear now as it had been from the start: and why?

But tonight, with tears staining her cheeks and mountains of crumpled papers all around her, the _why _didn't seem to matter quite as much as it had before. What mattered was that, in the end, she cared for him deeply enough to never see him again. Now that she understood. Now that she could not find a way out. She would do whatever it took to make him happy again, even if it meant never being near him again, never speaking to him, having nothing more to do with him...

He was worth everything. And there was a part of her, distant and persistent, that dared her to reconcile such a thing... that someone who had betrayed him in such a permanent, unapologetic way could feel such love now, could make such a gesture to be what he needed, especially now that what he needed was anything in all the world except for her.

But the much more overriding factor was the simple truth that it _was _exactly what it _didn't _seem to be. What it seemed _impossible _to ever be. And that she had no choice but to accept it and find a way to pick herself back up again.

Even if she could never forgive herself for what she'd _never _thought she could ever do.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Friday, 14th August...<strong>_

He had to try just one more time.

Harry sat at the foot of his camp bed, tying his shoes, hoodie pulled up over his dark, shaggy hair, even in heat of the summer. He'd been careful not to wake Ron. He didn't want this to change the way he healed. He knew that Ron needed to see the truth, no matter what that actually meant, in the end. And Harry was willing to risk his own fluttering, confused heart if it saved Ron from breaking any more than he already had... anymore than he had to.

And so, with one last look towards his lightly snoring best friend, he sadly slipped out of Ron's bedroom and made his way down to the back door. The Burrow was silent this early, and he'd planned it so... no questions, no chances of being stalled or stopped. And at dawn, surely, she'd be home, if she was living at her parents' old house at all now. But he'd noted the way that her bedroom had felt stale in a sort of familiar way yesterday, as if a ghost of her lingered there. And maybe he really could feel her presence still, even if the person he thought he'd known so well was no longer who she'd been...

He'd reached the back garden without enough time to think, but then he never really had enough time. And he'd always done best without that time anyway.

He disapparated and reappeared behind the low hedges across the street from Hermione's parents' house, feeling slightly sick with familiarity, like repeating an old failure or mistake just to prove it wrong. But as he stood there, deliberating, the front door opened... and his heart might have stopped for a moment, waiting.

She was suddenly just _there_, looking around as if she was expecting company... Or perhaps... dreading _him_.

The boggling thing was that Harry wasn't entirely sure _he _even knew which 'him' his own thoughts had drifted to... There was Ron, tucked up in his bed back at home, missing her in a way that could not be properly expressed with words. There was Paul, the man with whom she'd so recently ruined everything. And there was Harry himself, who was now sleepwalking his way out from behind the hedges, ready to call out to her.

But that's when she spotted him, turning in his direction with widening eyes. Their eyes met and he felt his stomach sink with how she now looked to him - like someone entirely not herself, someone who he'd never even met before, surely. How could she be? He'd never seen this Hermione before, the one who'd been capable-

"Harry?" she breathed, as he slowed but did not stop, and he crossed onto her property, making his way along the several paces of stone walkway before the front steps.

"Why did you do it?" he spat out, before he could stop himself. "Why? !"

"Harry, it wasn't working, he and I," she said, nearly slurring her words together. "I don't know what else to say to you. Please, I have to go."

And she was turning, ready to disapparate right here from her own front porch, barely hidden in the shadow cast by the overhang above her. How could she be so careless, even now, even so desperate?

"No!" Harry shouted, bounding up the steps to stop her from going. "Wait!"

He grabbed her arm just in time and she managed to stop them from disapparating, alarmed by his speed.

"Let me go," she demanded, avoiding eye contact with him. But he shoved a hand deep into his pocket, squeezing her wrist a bit too tightly, and she winced. But he didn't particularly care...

"You need to watch these, my memories of Ron after what you did," he insisted, pressing a vial into her hand. "You need to, and I'm going into the pensieve with you."

"I don't have _time_," she explained, wrenching her arm free from Harry's grasp, but clutching the vial nonetheless.

"Like hell," Harry spat, but she took a quick step forward, brushing past him and actually running down the front steps.

"I have an _appointment _that I intend to keep," she said, back still turned towards Harry as she made her way to the edge of the street, glancing both ways before dashing across. Harry sprung into action and followed her, eyes on her back as she slipped behind the same hedges he had used as cover when he'd arrived.

"You'll bloody well _make _time for this," Harry shouted, squinting behind his glasses as he caught sight of the rising sun, bright and gleaming to his right, just peeking over the horizon.

"I'll watch them, but not with you," she said, spinning around to face Harry as he slipped behind the hedges with her, still several feet away from her.

"Her-" he started, as she met his eyes. But then, suddenly, she was spinning, disapparating, and he could do nothing to stop her, entranced and floored by her rejection, arms outstretched too late in her direction.

The crack of her disapparition echoed around him for a thick moment after she'd gone. And he was left, alone, feeling somehow more empty even than he had before. Something in her eyes, the way she'd regarded him... It was almost as if she wanted nothing more to do with him! But how was that possible, after everything? She'd been the one to stay with him when things got rough on the Horcrux hunt the year before. She'd never left, even when things became too insurmountable to allow for hope at all.

Was she _really_... could she actually be _this _person now?

_Yes_, a tiny voice seemed to speak to him. _She can. And she _must _be._

He shook, trying to rise above what he could see and focus on what he could do, alone, to be certain. He had a plan. Research. Books and notes and cleverness. All of the things she'd once been. He'd be them now. He'd think like Hermione and react like Hermione and second and triple guess like Hermione... like the Hermione who had lied to save them from detention first year when they'd attacked a troll for her. The Hermione who had helped them find the Chamber of Secrets, even whilst petrified. The Hermione who had taken him back in time to save his godfather's life...

He couldn't go on. He couldn't reminisce. All he had strength enough to do now was to fight. From this point onward. Until he understood. Until he could reconcile the truth with what he'd seen. And he knew exactly where to start, her second home perhaps...

The library.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Saturday, 31st October...<strong>_

The feast had been delicious, as always, and there was now a small party beginning to rage downstairs. But Ron sat on top of his trunk, at the foot of his dormitory bed, re-lacing his trainers. Harry entered a moment later and flashed Ron a small smile.

"Coming back down?" he asked, shutting the door behind him.

"Mm, yeah," Ron shrugged, focused on his shoes as he tied them, making far too much of an effort for something he couldn't normally be bothered with.

But it had occurred to him, tonight, just what he was finally losing. That he'd let her go completely. And... that he could actually say that he didn't need to give a damn, anymore. How was it possible that he'd come so far? He'd shut down the part of himself that loved her, and he'd become something new and unfamiliar.

Harry sat next to him, on the edge of the trunk, and he picked at the thigh of his jeans, a bit that had frayed and was revealing a tiny new hole as he continued to tear at it.

"Thanks for everything, mate," Ron said, suddenly. "She's not tried to talk to me or even come close to me since you started helping her with her research."

"That's all over now," Harry said quickly, glancing in Ron's direction. And they met eyes as Ron swallowed.

"It is?"

"I wanted to tell you last night, but you were asleep when I came up from the library."

"Blimey..."

So there was nothing left. No unanswered questions or unturned rocks?

She was taking a lot of him with her. He couldn't deny that. But he'd already said his goodbyes. This new knowledge was nothing more or less than the final words that he'd been waiting for. What _had _to be said to never look back.

"She knew everything," Ron breathed, after a while, "all of my secrets. She knew bloody everything about me."

Harry watched, silently, with no important words to say, no profound realisations. This was just... it.

"It felt, sometimes, like maybe she was just... my own imagination," and Ron almost laughed at the absurdity of his admission. Harry puzzled an eyebrow up as Ron glanced in his direction. "Once, in the tent last year, after I'd destroyed that locket, I watched her sleeping in her bunk. And it was like... it almost didn't seem real. Like... if she was alive, then how was it possible, really? She was so much exactly what I wanted... and who I wanted, back then. She always was."

Harry swallowed visibly, and Ron knew, now that Hermione was at a very solid dead end, that they could get some kind of closure, something they hadn't actually been afforded before. It had been his own strength of will that had kept him away from the possibilities. But now, it was the glaring truth that even the most brilliant person he knew could not find another solution, another answer or a way to exonerate herself.

Now, they could start life anew from here, wherever and whatever that looked like.

"Am I making sense? Have you ever... felt that before?" Ron asked. "It's like... how can something be so perfect? How could _this _have happened if it was? And now... it's all just... It looks so much like maybe it _wasn't_. It never was perfect at all. Was I just too blind? Was she always this person and I just never noticed? Was I too distracted by... by loving her to see how bad she really was for me? Maybe it really _was _just all me, from the beginning. I'd made up some perfect girl to fall in love with."

"You didn't, Ron," Harry said, voice rough and hoarse. "Of course she was real. Do you remember how many times she saved our arses, and how much we all went through together? There was a time when she was loyal and good and... bloody bossy and demanding..."

Ron managed a grimace that bordered on a nostalgic half-smile as Harry gave him a small, echoing smile in return. But it was too short lived...

"She changed," Harry continued. "People change. I believe that now. I don't know what happened. I don't know... maybe the war changed her, flipped some kind of a switch inside of her."

They looked away from each other, lost in their own heads. And finally, Ron spoke again, much more quietly than before...

"I can actually let her go now," he said. "There's this part of me that probably still loves her, but that part loves something that doesn't exist anymore, really. When I see her now... I actually don't want to be with her, ever again. God, I hate admitting that."

"I'm glad it's true," Harry confessed, clenching the edge of Ron's trunk with both hands.

"Me too. I could never have been with her again after the hell she put me through, after she lied to me and... _fucked _another bloke and showed me what she really thought about me. I always knew that. But now it's... I have to bite my tongue in class from making snappy comments in her direction again, like we're back in sodding sixth year."

"You haven't slipped yet," Harry pointed out, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah, but you should hear the things going on inside my head when she answers a question or gets all snotty about knowing something better than somebody else- bloody hell..."

Harry bit his lip, and Ron felt so many conflicting things, warring for dominance. There were too many memories tied up in her. Cut all ties and move on. It was his plan, it had always been. And the rope had been stretched to its breaking point, until she had nothing more to strive for or fight for. And Harry was here now to sever it all, and all it took was one small tear, one more step backwards.

"We're fine," Harry breathed, and even to his _own _surprise, Ron nodded without pause.

Clouds had parted, as a weight settled more firmly in the pit of Ron's stomach. And ice solidified protectively around veins and arteries. He was just fine without her.

He'd find somebody else.

He'd moved on. And slowly, day by day, she'd slip into the back of his mind, into memories not so sharp and clear. She'd vanish, bit by bit, and he'd only think of her once in a while, subconsciously in a dream or when he'd see someone who looked like her, like he remembered she had been to him... once.

And so, for today, he'd smile. And see where his life would take him... without her, ever again.

* * *

><p><em>Call on the lonely<br>A plea for you to befriend her  
>Make only you feel better<br>Make only you_

_Nothing outside will care enough  
>Nothing outside of you<em>

_This trail that you're treading  
>Is one flicked switch awaiting many<br>The coils, the echoes rattling  
>I hope the fears are buried beneath my love<em>

_My love_  
><em>Love is the ever changing spectrum of a lie<em>  
><em>A lie, a lie to hide behind when nothing's right<em>  
><em>You take form with ink and blood<em>  
><em>Can't you see I'm good?<em>


	14. You Take Form with Ink & Blood, Part 2

_**A/N: **Right. Now, off for the longest thing ever. There is a lot of 'Harry thinking about things,' and the pacing isn't epic or terribly action-packed in this update, namely because I just had to cut this short and split what I had originally planned as one chapter into two parts instead. If you haven't already guessed, this story is definitely going to be longer than the originally intended 24 chapters... _

_Companion track:  
>The Joy Formidable, "Maruyama" -<br>http : / / www . youtube . com / watch?v=ONlLmXuZBI0 [remove spaces]_

_Also, I discovered this poem, while writing this chapter, and thought it was rather nice:**  
><strong>_

**The Thieves ****by Robert Graves**

Lovers in the act dispense  
>With such meum-tuum sense<br>As might warningly reveal  
>What they must not pick or steal,<br>And their nostrum is to say:  
>'I and you are both away.'<p>

After, when they disentwine  
>You from me and yours from mine,<br>Neither can be certain who  
>Was that I whose mine was you.<br>To the act again they go  
>More completely not to know.<p>

Theft is theft and raid is raid  
>Though reciprocally made.<br>Lovers, the conclusion is  
>Doubled sighs and jealousies<br>In a single heart that grieves  
>For lost honour among thieves.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five - You Take Form with Ink and Blood, Part Two<strong>

_**Friday, 13th November...**_

_The world was black and white, a landscape of blurred surreality. _

_His ear was pressed to a strongly beating heart. The earth quaked around him, as a tremor of nervous anticipation shot through his veins. The heart beat faster, almost irregular, and she was awakening, slipping away from him through sheets of muted grey. Skin clung to skin as her hand slipped out of his, and he tried to breathe, but found no air to take in. He could hardly move to stop the inevitable; he felt a shadow cover him, a prickle at the base of his neck..._

_His cheeks grew warm with salty tears, but he felt no pain, though he was sure that he should have. Figures hovered, ominous and terrifying, as he blinked in their direction, unable to make a sound. The world seemed cloaked in a thick fog, too heavy and all at once too light to move through._

_He had a sudden, necessary urge to get up, to fight. But it was hopeless. He seemed to sink through his mattress, stuck in something like quicksand, and blackness closed in from either side, as if a curtain was being shut over his eyes..._

Ron gasped and arched his back away from his dormitory mattress, eyes opening wide to stare up at the stone ceiling. His chest constricted, images from a dream trickling away as he tried to calm his rapidly beating heart. His ribs ached with an incessant, panicked drumming beneath as he breathed.

"Harry," he choked out, finding just enough air to speak a single word.

His friend was rustling out of his bed and stumbling closer in the dark already, and Ron swallowed, closing his eyes and trying to breathe with regularity.

Harry's hand pressed to Ron's forehead, and he flinched, gasping as he opened his eyes again, on edge with every touch, every sound... Everything seemed heightened and frightening, and Harry's darting eyes seemed to reflect exactly what Ron was feeling.

"...need to get... o-out of here," Ron half-whispered, half-choked. "Come with me."

And, with trembling limbs, Ron swung out of bed and stood, ignoring the frozen stone beneath his bare feet and moving swiftly out of their room, turning right towards the loo. They entered the dark, hollow room, illuminated only by moonlight, wafting in through paned glass all along the right wall. Harry crossed his arms protectively over his own chest and stood with wide eyes, facing Ron as he panted, shivering.

"What the hell is happening?" Ron whispered, stretching his fingers to try and still the furious shaking, wracking his whole body with bits of dream, still slipping quickly away from him. He felt them leaving, and he tried desperately to hold onto some of them, spilling them out to Harry while they remained. "Harry, I had this dream. It felt so fucking real. She was in my bed with me, at the Burrow, sleeping."

Ron shifted his weight anxiously from foot to foot as he spoke, as Harry's eyes widened yet another fraction.

"I th-think... I felt like someone else was there. And then... Shit, Harry, it was like they were holding me down, but no one was touching me. I couldn't move or breathe or do a sodding thing, but they took her away from me."

"What did they look like?" Harry prodded, appearing nearly as shaken as Ron felt.

"I... I don't know," Ron breathed, closing his eyes to try and remember something, _anything_... something more than what he could still grasp.

"Ron..." Harry whispered, slowly, and after a long moment had passed between them, "I was dreaming, too."

Ron opened his eyes and waited with mounting impatience, for Harry to go on.

"I was at the Ministry. I could see a bright light overhead, and I heard whispering voices but couldn't make out what they were saying. I have all of these facts in my head, dates and names and events in a particular order," and Harry paused to shudder out a sigh, "but it's like... why don't I feel a damn thing about them?"

"What do you mean?" Ron prodded, desperately.

"Think for a second. Just try to remember a particular time or place or something we all did together, something old, something meaningful."

Ron shut his eyes again, breathing thickly through his mouth and calling up anything he could...

A flash of Hermione slapping Malfoy across the face in third year. He knew he'd felt something then, something new. But he couldn't recall what it had been, exactly.

"Do you feel that?" Harry whispered, through the dark. "It's like we're losing bits of something really important. But I don't know how to stop it!"

Ron opened his eyes again and ran a hand through his hair, calming significantly now from his dream as no particular emotions raced to the surface, begging to be known. He knew, in some ways, that he didn't want to lose them. But a much larger part of him didn't seem to mind now, as if a switch had been flicked. But then, suddenly, Harry stepped up to Ron, madly, grabbing Ron's face in both of his hands and forcing Ron to look down at him. Harry's eyes were so wide and frightened, and Ron's eyes darted between them, startled by the sudden movements from his friend.

"Hold onto it!" Harry pleaded. "Please, don't let this go! It means something, I'm so sure of it..."

And there they stood, staring back at each other, breathing and trying to remain right where they'd been, surrounded by fear and the knowledge that something was actually terribly and profoundly wrong.

But the world settled, gently, as if lulling them back to their realm of peace and healing. And after some time, Harry dropped his hands from Ron's face and looked away. And Ron found that he was no longer trembling, that his heart rate had returned to normal, and that the room around them was not echoing anymore with foreboding and unease. In fact, he found, once again, that it was just a loo, empty and cold, and he longed for the warmth and comfort of his bed.

"I dunno," Ron sighed. "They were just dreams, yeah?"

Harry glanced up into Ron's eyes again, all desperation gone, replaced with a quiet acceptance.

"Reckon so," he agreed, nodding.

And, finally, with deep breaths between them, they retreated back to their beds, wordlessly, parting ways and quickly returning to sleep, dreamless and unconcerning, until morning.

* * *

><p>She used to be so good at blocking out thoughts of him, prioritizing her school work and focusing on what was simple, what came naturally to her. But it was so much harder now, so much different than it had once been. Before, she'd had the lingering hope of 'someday' ahead of her. But now, that hope seemed no longer possible. Someday had come and gone. And she had missed it. How she ached for those months they'd had together, for memories of how things had been, so happy and perfect while it had lasted. She felt guilty for her jealousy over the memories Ron now had of a past she would never be able to look back on. She'd never been with him. Not really. Though <em>he <em>had been with _her_. Exactly how she'd wanted him to be.

She often fantasized about a day, years from now, when they might be cordial enough with each other for her to ask him for a small slice, even just one or two days of his own memories, so that she could see how things _had _been... to live it through his eyes.

Or perhaps, some day, she could find the memories she'd lost, buried somewhere within her own mind. If they had been there once, shouldn't she be able to find them again?

She could hope. But it didn't stop her from living. Not anymore. Not now, knowing who she was.

She sighed, packed her bag for the day's lessons, and disappeared from Gryffindor tower, walking alone.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Saturday, 14th November...<strong>_

Ron still had nightmares of Malfoy Manor. Harry knew, even if Ron never told him. And last night... perhaps an artifact of something lingering there, something he feared in his sleep but no longer addressed while he was awake.

Harry wasn't sure what made him replay it, curiously, throughout the day. There had been a moment, last night with Ron, waking from their nightmares, where Harry could remember _saying _things that he could no longer feel. It was such a strange thing now, to be able to hear his own echoing words from the night before, spoken with such earnest pleading... but not to be able to recall why, or what he'd felt.

A part of Harry was still endlessly stuck in a loop of knowing something and not really knowing it at all. The same thoughts, reduced to two very different sorts of meaning now.

And tonight, as he watched Ron running a hand through his hair, eyes almost blank and shielded away, he couldn't help but sigh.

"We should revise our Potions essays tomorrow," Harry said, dully, opting for simplicity.

"Yeah," Ron agreed, tucking into his bed and stretching atop his mattress.

"Off to sleep then?" Harry asked, pained in the way that Ron avoided him. It was still so difficult sometimes, to guess what Ron was thinking now. Or to hope to have a handle on what exactly he was supposed to do. Ron was guarding everything in a way he never had before. Harry reckoned he was the only one who really knew Ron, the way that he did now...

"Yeah," Ron repeated, sighing down beneath his sheets. "G'night, Harry."

"Goodnight."

* * *

><p>Ron awoke in a panic again, grasping sheets in his hands, sweat breaking out along his spine.<p>

He was already losing this one, his dream, but the feeling remained. Though he didn't know why, he was terrified. He felt desperate, some irrational desire to go _back in time _and-

And what?

He swallowed, shuddering, and closed his eyes. Calming somewhat as he breathed through his mouth, he flexed his toes before letting his feet go quite limp and relaxed, hoping and longing for peace, post-nightmare.

But then.

It happened all at once, a jarring fact rising to the surface:

_Something was missing. _

His eyes popped open, the realisation hitting him like a bludger to the head. He craved whatever he'd lost, as if he'd suddenly remembered he'd forgotten to pack an essential item, or left a fire quietly burning in an old forgotten corner of a dusty, wooden room...

Tears burned at the corners of his eyes as he trembled, squinting up into the darkness.

He'd loved too deeply, with too big a part of himself, perhaps. Had a bit of who he was been _amputated _with the loss? Oh, God, it ached to know that something was gone that he could not figure out how to replace. But it felt so much bigger now, with each night he woke in fear, his mind yet unable to properly grasp the scope of something pending or looming... like a storm cloud in the distant sky. Was it moving ever closer, or drifting farther away?

There were endless threads tied and bound to his life through history. He could close his eyes and see flashes of what he'd once thought was perfection. Why was he suddenly so overwhelmed with his memories? He'd been doing better. He'd been healing.

But as much as he pushed and held strong, a residing, overriding truth begged to be questioned:

_Why do I still love her? Why isn't it going away?_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Monday, 16th November...<strong>_

After lessons, she _always _found herself here. Not that it was unusual for Hermione to vanish in a cloud of dusty old volumes at the back of the library for hours on end. Only now, she was always quite alone here.

Fragments of knowledge drifted in and out of her mind as she tried to concentrate. It was a struggle now, more than it had been before. She sighed, flipping the pages of her books and trying to memorize chunks of text, as she'd once been so good at doing.

But over and over, she could not stamp down the feeling that she should reach for a book, for one in _particular _that she'd had _in her grasp _that night... the night she'd stopped trying. For them.

Secretly, her heart beat with increased frequency at the prospect of opening that door again, of diving back into a place too deep and dark for her to make it back from alone. She could try, but she would be on her own. And that thought scared her more than she'd ever dreamt that it would. Before, it had always been the three of them. She'd shared in everything she'd ever done or researched or planned before with them. But with no one to talk to, no one to confide in this time, she felt lost and hopeless, sick with directionless longing.

But did that really matter? They'd been hopeless before. Just because she'd had the steady sounds of his breathing nearby in their shared tent, just because she'd been able to smell his familiar and comfortable warmth buried in each piece of clothing and every blanket...

It didn't have to mean she couldn't do this. It didn't have to make her give up, though the details and exact facets of every one of his freckles and the texture of his hair were slowly fading...

She sucked in a sharp breath, attempting to calm herself by the reassuring prospect of research. She was so damn good at shutting away from all that wasn't logical or based on sound reason, wasn't she? She was certainly supposed to be. And this, the way she felt when she thought of him, when she heard someone speak his name... this was anything but logical.

And so, pulse pounding, she pushed back from her library table and slowly headed down a path she could walk in her sleep, through dusty, ancient-scented texts, pages fragile and brittle and stained with years and years, endless stories of others just like her, searching desperately for an answer...

* * *

><p><em><strong>Wednesday, 17th November...<strong>_

When Harry closed his eyes, he couldn't help but see it...

A strange, orphaned image of a stark ceiling and a looming, blurry figure overhead. It was too simple to dissect, and yet, it felt weighty, moreso than a mere lingering moment from a dream.

Her voice rang out in the distance, giving him all the answers he couldn't even begin to understand. But it wasn't like every other time. He couldn't just go to her for help.

"You alright, mate?" Ron asked, over dinner. Harry blinked and stared across the table, into Ron's concerned eyes.

He leaned down over the table, as if afraid of being overheard, though by whom? He didn't know.

"Have you had your dream again?" he asked.

Ron paled slightly before nodding, dropping his fork with a slight clatter to his plate.

"Have you?"

"Yeah. Merlin..."

Ron rubbed a hand across his stubble and his eyes grew shifty as he disappeared into his thoughts.

"I keep waking up like I've forgotten something really important, in sort of a panic," Ron said.

"Exactly!"

They stared, in silence, back at each other over their pumpkin juice.

"What do we do?" Ron nearly whispered.

* * *

><p>Harry was scouring the library. With Ron still showering from Quidditch practice, Harry had rushed off, unable to wait any longer. He had to try for himself, to do the only thing that made any sense to him. What he'd seen <em>her <em>do for years and years.

His calloused fingers ran along the spines of so many books. His task felt daunting and unfamiliar, even as his eyes landed on tomes big enough to hold open a dungeon door, labeled in fading gold with _Ancient Methods of Memory Charming_ and _Memory Alterations and Their Consequences_.

As he walked, he suddenly stubbed his toe and looked down. There was a book, lying on the floor. The cover was about as standard as they came, the most familiar text perhaps in the entire library, at least to any old friend of Hermione Granger.

_Hogwarts, A History._

Feeling oddly trepidatious about the appearance of such a customary volume right here before him, he bent down to retrieve it. He lifted it from the floor, its pages shuffling slightly, uneven at the long edge. It wasn't out of the ordinary, to find a very old printing of a book here, one whose pages were falling significantly away from its binding. But this one...

Something was off, and he flipped open the pages with curiosity.

Several sheets fluttered to the floor. He reached for them, heart seizing as his eyes landed on the swirled writing of something much older than the decades-ago printing of this copy of _Hogwarts, A History_.

And, all at once, her writing stood out as clear as a blinding light, along the margins, and he tensed, scanning the edges with rapidly blurring vision. This was _her _copy. These were _her _notes, written along the edges of copied bits of text from another book altogether. Something vastly more sinister and secretive.

But before he could question what he was doing, he was crumpling the notes in his fist, anger boiling out of nowhere. He shoved the book under his arm and exited the library as quickly as possible, no longer remembering what he'd even come here for to begin with. It was a foolish thing, to be here now. He was losing his grip.

Turning sharply down a corridor, he ran into Ron, face colliding with his taller mate's chest.

"Oi!" Ron exclaimed as Harry dropped the book and notes to the stone floor. Ron reached for them, but Harry stopped him with a firm palm against his chest now, almost glaring.

"It's rubbish," Harry said, solidly. "She hasn't stopped at all! She's been researching more, going over old books right where we left off."

Ron visibly swallowed and averted Harry's eyes.

"Reckon she would have, yeah."

Harry bent to pick up the notes and book and brushed past Ron. But Ron followed quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"What are you gonna do with those, mate?" Ron asked, voice soft and somehow distant.

"I'll find her and hand the book back," Harry sighed.

But he knew his intentions. He would burn her notes in the glowing fire of the common room tonight. Sod it.

It needed no explanation. And the solution, and his plan for her work, felt too obvious.

But suddenly, Harry froze, stopping dead in the middle of the corridor, eyes wide.

What the hell was he thinking?

"Ron..." he swallowed, losing his grip on the book and notes. Ron took them from Harry, at the last second, before he could drop them. "I wanted to _burn _her notes. I was _just _thinking of it, just then... and it seemed like such a good thing to do. Does that make any sense to you? Who the hell cares what she's researching without us?"

"Dunno..." Ron mumbled as he slouched slightly, growing awkward with so much talk of _her_.

And as they stood there, Harry searching for an answer to his own illogical responses, he saw... _her_.

She emerged from a corridor ahead, brushing soot off of her clothing. Her hair was wild and frizzy, lightly coated in soot as well. Heart pounding, Harry stared across at her, willing Ron not to notice, but unable to tear his gaze away. She turned, and she caught Harry's eye, her own eyes glistening slightly as she adjusted her bag on her shoulder. And, without another moment between them, she wrinkled her nose with a sniff, lifted her chin a fraction higher, and turned away, to head straight down the corridor away from him, retreating into the distance.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Friday, 19th November...<strong>_

She pushed through the loo door, dropping her bag to the stone floor and hiccuping a breath as she squinted, moving towards the stalls. It had become such a regular, persistent routine now. Why could she not get herself together and stop this? What good did it do to come here and cry, at the end of lessons, only to gather herself together for the library, all over again?

Rationally, she hated the way she'd become. But knowing that so much of her story was now missing, she couldn't be particularly rational all of the time, could she.

She entered a stall and closed the door behind her, leaning her head against the thin wood wall that separated her stall from the next, and she breathed out a sob.

Tears sprung to life, as they always did, and she let herself go, crying out her day in rivers, rolling gently and warmly down her cheeks. Could things really be so bleak? But she didn't _think_, not here. She didn't rationalize or make sense of it. She was here for one reason - to be raw and open, to make room for the public days of strength that she needed in order to cope.

It was a long and lonely road with no real hope, support, or positive movement. Everything looked the same, from this place, here, to as far as she could see. But when had that ever truly stopped her?

She spotted a bit of soot on the back of her hand and brushed it away, closing her eyes to her grief as she ignored the discomfort of the rough wood wall against her forehead.

He walked alone, down a dark corridor. Rain pattered with consistency against the windows as he went. It was a dreary sort of day, with no relief since dawn had failed to properly break. It was as if they were living in those moments, early in the morning, just before an alarm would sound to rise for the day's lessons.

As he reached the middle of the corridor, he heard a sudden, loud sort of sniff, followed by a higher pitched cry.

He paused, straining his ears for the sound again. And there it was, coming from Moaning Myrtle's loo just a few paces down on the left. He approached slowly, sounds growing more full and clear as he moved closer. The rain seemed to augment what he could hear, and he reckoned whoever it was on the other side of this door had been counting on that very thing.

But then, on the next small burst of stifled sobs, he knew who was on the other side, as clearly as he knew his own name.

Hermione. He could recognize the sounds she made in his sleep. Her cries, her shouts, even her frustrated breaths.

He needed to move. He couldn't linger here, listening. He wasn't supposed to feel sorry for her.

But her cries continued to echo off the damp walls of the unused lavatory, and Harry could only take so much. He pushed the door open with abandon, holding his breath. The door rebounded against the stone wall next to it, and fearing that she'd heard his entrance, he froze, heart pounding. But it was momentarily obvious that she had heard nothing, or had decided it wasn't worth bothering about. Her sobs continued, breaking through the motionless air of the hollow room.

He pressed a hand to his book bag as he listened. Her _Hogwarts, A History _was buried there, still, though her notes remained crumpled at the bottom of his trunk upstairs. It was the best he could do, not to destroy them. But he'd felt as compelled to resist as he had felt compelled to act.

Through her sobs, he thought he could make out two words, soft and innocent, and barely whispered through delicate little squeaks: _I'm sorry._

He blinked too frequently and longed too much for things he couldn't have, now that they were so split apart. He'd chosen his allegiance, and could never be sorry for that. But there was also never going to be a full understanding, a full _acceptance _of what she had done.

He leaned against the wall and softly lowered his bag to the floor, knees bending as he sagged, weighed down by her sobs. He closed his eyes and sank down to the floor, ducking his head over his knees.

He should leave. A large part of him was begging him to do just that. But another, more frustrating part, wanted to see this to the end, wanted to feel the pain she felt and see her perspective. After all, wasn't he supposed to be good at seeing things from another mindset? He could understand pain and suffering, or at least he could pity it. He'd pitied so many before her, and never acted out against those who could still repent. It wasn't as if he thought she wasn't sorry. He'd known it, for so long. But it was so hard for him to accept that she _was _sorry, when she couldn't even remember what she was supposed to be sorry for!

Before he even realised it, tears were clinging to his cheeks in jagged lines, rolling silently to the edge of his jaw. He shook against the stone wall behind him, knees bent tighter up against his chest.

And then, a stall door swung open. And Hermione stepped through. And he held his breath all over again, tears drying on his face as he waited.

She spotted him, but her startled look quickly morphed into one of strength. And, sniffing, lifting her head as high as she could muster, she walked. Her footfalls echoed lightly as she approached the sinks and mirrors, allowing herself a cursory glance at her own reflection before breathing sharply through her nose and sighing to recompose herself. She turned on a faucet at random and rinsed her hands before splashing her face gently. And, using a corner of her robe, she dried her face and breathed deeply again.

"What are you doing here, Harry?" she asked, so softly.

He couldn't answer her. He didn't know, himself. He brushed at his face with the back of his hand to remove all remaining traces of his own tears. But then, it occurred to him. Her book. Of course.

"I wanted to give this back to you," he began, reaching for his bag and rummaging for the fragile volume, "your _Hogwarts, A History_."

Her eyes widened as he stood, still maintaining his distance as he held the book out for her to take. She stepped forward and removed it from his grasp with a light touch.

"Where did you find it?" she asked, eyes fixed on the cover.

"In the library, on the floor, just sticking out from under the last high shelf before the restricted section," he explained, clearing his throat lightly.

"Thank you," and she brushed a hand over the cover.

"I know what you've been doing," he accused, though he hadn't intended it to sound that way. Maybe, _subconsciously_, he'd wanted it to.

"I haven't found anything, if that's why you're asking," she said, sadly, eyes still so puffy and glistening. "It's not hurting him, is it? I'm sorry. But I... I've got so many questions, Harry. Why has all of this happened to us?"

He looked down, then, overwhelmed with questions he couldn't answer. That was the only sort of question that seemed to be out there, these days.

"But... but how hard is it to go against what everyone else believes?" she almost whispered. "I know my heart. And then I know what's happened, and what I've done."

He almost didn't want her to say it, though he knew that she would.

"The truth is," she continued, so quietly, and his eyes finally lifted to fix solidly on her, though she wouldn't look back across at him, "now that I've seen what I did, now that I haven't been able to find a way to disprove it... I already feel so ashamed."

She stood so small before him, eyes cast down away from him. But from his position, several feet away from her, with what little light the gloomy day had offered them casting in through a window to her right, he could see every crease across her face, skin marred by red patches and old tear tracks that somehow seemed to be a permanent fixture of her features now. Even though she'd wiped the tears away, the traces still remained, an enduring imprint of days past and so many more yet to come. She was too pale, too thin, and he thought he could make out a light, unfamiliar scar just beneath her left ear... before her hair fell forward in an unruly wave to cover it.

"I don't deserve him," she whispered, voice raspy and distant. "I never will, if this is who I am. And you're both _right _to hate me. I can _never _blame you for that."

"I could never hate you, Hermione," he whispered, unaware that he'd even spoken until his voice registered back to his own ears, echoing slightly off the walls of the lavatory.

Her eyes widened slightly, overwhelmed as she finally stared back at him.

"It seems a lifetime ago now when we were friends, when at least we had that," she almost sobbed, sucking in a breath at the last moment to stop it.

He was speechless, though he didn't want to be. Because deep down, he'd felt something boiling, a sort of battle he didn't know he was ready to fight. He'd made his choice! They all had. And he'd thought he'd made it positively _impossible _to ever change his mind. But he watched her walk stiffly towards the door, listening and wincing as she pushed it open too hard. And he squinted against his own muted agony as his eyes overflowed once more... as she disappeared through the door, and out of his sight.

He could not remember the last time he'd cried this way. What was wrong with him? What had happened to send him so far over the edge of reason? Was he acting with his heart, or with some buried knowledge that was itching away at him, trying to remind him of something he'd since forgotten?

The words were there, though jumbled. She had been something to him that did not match up with who she was now. Had he really thought it could be so easy, just to forget her? But it _had _been.

Why?

Had she really done something he could not forgive? Or did he simply not want to forgive her? Or was it all down to the bottom line that no matter what facts and figures spoke of her past, they did not add up to his present?

Something was disastrously wrong.

The realisation came to him so quickly, and already, as he tried to focus on it, he felt it leaving him again.

"No!" he shouted, clenching his fists at his sides, tilting his head back and shutting his eyes.

He was going mental. Or else he was caught in some horror plot, circling down an endless drain, only to claw his way up the sides enough not to fall completely, but never reaching safety.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Tuesday, 23rd November...<strong>_

_Harry was struggling against two sets of hands, a light shining much too brightly down on him. His eyes burned and watered as he was assaulted, pain ripping through his head from back to front, then side to side, like small bolts of lightning, rebounding against the inside of his skull._

_He tried to scream, but made no sound..._

Ron was shaking Harry's shoulders with both of his large hands.

"Mate, please wake up!" Ron whispered, voice growing persistent and harsh as Harry returned to full consciousness, bits of his brain still clinging to what he'd just seen and felt.

He couldn't speak, but he took in the sight of Ron's creased and sweat-coated forward, his long fingers still digging into the fabric of Harry's shirt, at the shoulders.

"You were saying her name," Ron choked.

"I... I was?"

Ron ripped his hands away and stood, heading for the door with a small glance back. Harry took it as his queue to follow, and he dizzily slid from his bed, stumbling out onto the landing, where Ron was already pacing.

"I had another dream. Only this time, I could see their faces. They were blurry, but I could see them. I think this is real, Harry. It isn't just a dream. Not anymore. This is something we can figure out," Ron jumped in, and Harry blinked to wake himself fully, to slow his heart rate as he listened to Ron's sensible words. "Memories. Dreams. We've done this before, mate."

"We have," Harry said, quietly, "yes."

"I'm beginning to think there's a key here, and if we can just sort through the rubbish, find one clue, we-" but he cut himself off and turned to face Harry, squinting harshly.

"Yeah, we can sort this out," Harry said, voice raspy with sleep.

But Harry wasn't so sure. Not at all. He was too stuck in what he'd just seen and felt to be fully aware of his surroundings. He'd been forced down, pain had ripped through him, and he'd... he'd felt different, afterwards. Altered, perhaps?

"Harry," Ron begged, and Harry shook himself out of his trance, focusing on the person who needed him the most, "I know what she did. But I can't ignore this, can I?" he breathed, forehead creased with the pain of either choice. "It doesn't have to be about her. But I need to figure this out, or I'll always wonder what it was..."

"I know."

And Harry did know, at last. He'd been trying to do as much. Only now, it could be the two of them. It needed to be.

"So, what do we do? Where do we start?" Ron asked, letting out a long breath of relief. Something in the mystery, in _having _a mystery to solve at all, had seemed to free him.

Harry cast around for an answer, but it was as daunting as the start of so many of their adventures. And there was never any good place to start but where their instincts had taken them. Maybe this would lead them back to _her_. But maybe it wouldn't. Either way, they couldn't fear the answers they might find and risk never knowing.

Yes, they'd researched. He'd spent days and weeks and _months _trying and failing to exonerate Hermione's actions. But Ron was right - this _didn't_ have to be about her. This was something different. This was something he could see and feel and _hear_, when he closed his eyes. This... was inside of them. It was a buried secret or forgotten corner, waiting to be discovered.

This time, it felt so odd to be relying on another, to be waiting for something to click to send them where they needed to go. But that was exactly what seemed to be right. Because he felt that no matter what, Ron's dreams, perhaps his memories, were going to be the answer. Harry suddenly knew what it had been like, on the other side, for Ron. They'd been hunting horcruxes, and with what? Fragments of information that served no purpose. At least they hadn't appeared to. And Harry now felt that same unease, of being tossed out to sea with no stars or landmarks to guide them... only the trust he had in his best friend. His brother.

And so, he was ready to be led, to blindly go where they needed to go. And he felt that the trust he had was not just in Ron, but in his instincts, in a sort of optimism for chance that he had not felt since the war had ended.

"You tell me," Harry nodded, as Ron gave him a skeptical lift of one auburn eyebrow. "We can start tomorrow."

* * *

><p>As Ron opened his eyes the next morning, he felt... awakened, in a completely new sort of way, rising to the surface of the water he'd been drowning beneath. He'd been moving his life through a fog, and only now did he see it for what it was. How long had he been this way? When had the change occurred?<em><br>_

But it didn't matter now.

He had a puzzle to put together. He had a library to sort through. Old tricks he'd learned from a friend, a girl who'd once been everything...

Maybe one day, he'd _thank_ who she once was, for saving his life yet again. For books and cleverness, in the end, really being all that he needed.

* * *

><p><em>The moments that you treasure are set aside<br>What's lost is here; it's charged, it feels_

_I can't settle, I can't rest_

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><p><em><em><strong>AN part 2:** GUH! Thanks for reading that novel...__

__Oh! Take a listen to Menomena's "Wet and Rusting." I've been listening to it all day...  
>http :  / www . youtube . com / watch?v=3cA0aJaU7kw [remove spaces]_  
><em>


	15. You Take Form with Ink & Blood, Part 3

_**A/N: **Well, well well. Here we are, back to **Thieves**! Sorry it's been so long! I haven't had a computer, but all things have been resolved and life is now grand! I am now in permanent possession of my very own laptop, after a year of stolen moments on random computers and carpal tunneling my hands to write on my Blackberry!_

_This chapter is short-ish, but it's setting up a very long "Part Four." I will try my best to get that part posted next Tuesday, but I am out of town on a job and don't have quite as much time as I will when I'm back at home next week. Either way, I really hope you enjoy this installment, and also please take a moment to check out the new stories and art on rhrlove for the Pregnancy Challenge!_**  
><strong>

__Companion track:  
>The Joy Formidable, "Greyhounds in the Slips" -<br>www . youtube watch?v=Cq74zstycmQ [remove spaces]__

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><p><strong>Chapter Five - You Take Form with Ink and Blood, Part Three<strong>

_**Wednesday, 25th November...**_

Ron slowly paced the library in front of Harry where he sat near a round table, skimming page after page of a large book, which outlined effects and symptoms of memory charms.

"It doesn't seem like it could be from obliviate," Harry sighed, flipping another page of the book with a rustle. "Obliviate usually leaves no trace of the original memory. It leaves a hole that you probably wouldn't notice, if done exactly correct. You might slowly realise that a portion of time was missing from what you could remember, but it wouldn't be immediately obvious."

"And if it's done _wrong_? What about Lockhart? He went loopy. Last I checked, we haven't gone completely round the twist..." Ron trailed off, turning to face Harry. "Or have we?" he added, lifting an eyebrow in an attempt to remove a bit of tension. Harry smiled and shook his head, returning his attention to the book across his lap.

"Blimey," Harry sighed again, "I had no idea some of these things existed. This is doing my head in..."

Ron stopped pacing and pulled a chair across the rug, flipping it around and sitting on it backwards, facing Harry.

"Does it say anything about removing a memory like you would to use in a pensieve?" Ron asked, swallowing as he watched Harry scan pages for an answer.

"Yeah, right here," Harry said, lifting his eyebrows as he moved his index finger over the text. "You'd notice an absence. You'd remember the memory being removed because that part wasn't connected to the memory itself. But we know how that feels. You'd have an even better reference for that, with the you-know-what..." Harry cleared his throat and pointedly avoided looking up at Ron who simply nodded and pushed past the sick feeling churning in the pit of his stomach at the thought of _that _particular memory...

"Yeah," he breathed. "I remember _remembering _it, even with it still down in the pensieve..."

Harry's eyes flashed up suddenly to meet Ron's.

"You never got it back? !" he asked, shocked.

Ron ran a hand through his hair and rested an elbow against the back of his chair, avoiding Harry's gaze.

"No point," he mumbled.

"I'd say there's a point!" Harry reasoned. "You can't just take away a part of your memory and leave it missing."

"Why not?" Ron argued, now meeting Harry's eyes again. "It's mine to do what I want with, innit? I don't particularly fancy draining it back into my mind, thanks..."

"But it's got to be important, don't you think? I dunno," Harry shrugged. "How are you supposed to really get over something you only remember _remembering _but don't... actually have a memory of?"

Ron blinked a few times, working his way through Harry's sentence.

"Maybe that's why you can't really get out of this loop of thinking about her," Harry said softly. And Ron knew, on some level, that Harry was making sense.

"Well," and Ron cleared his throat, opting to change the subject for now, "let's focus on one major problem at a time, shall we?"

Harry grimaced with pity at Ron's attempt to be vaguely lighthearted. But Ron shook his head briefly before running a hand over the back of his neck and standing to slowly pace again, as Harry returned his attention to his book. Ron shoved his hands into his pockets and dislodged thoughts of her, refocusing, instead, on their current line of research...

"Alright," Ron started, "so if we still remember little pieces of _something_, then what the hell could have happened? What other options are there?"

"Well," Harry sighed, "it gets rather complicated from here, and sounds like most of what has been researched is still just a theory. This author," and he reached for an older, much dustier volume to his left, "seems to think that you could borrow a sort of echo of a memory, in which you'd be able to access the important points without completely removing the original. But in this case, it sounds like the results would be the other way around, and the person who had stolen the memory would only have glimpses of what really happened."

"Okay," Ron huffed. "But damn it, we _still _don't even know why someone would _want _our memories... do we?"

"Not in the slightest," Harry agreed, shaking his head, looking lost.

"It might help us to know that," Ron continued, "but we can't know _why _unless we know _what _we're actually missing."

"Or if we're missing anything at all..."

Ron looked sadly down at Harry before slumping into his chair again and chewing on his lip. It wasn't as if he'd never felt this lost before. They'd been on the horcrux hunt with even less to go on. But this was always the worst part, getting to the point of breakthrough, weeding through nonsense, hoping something jumped out and gave them some kind of clue or hope...

"Well," Harry breathed, standing up, "might as well go on another search through the library, see if we can find anything new to sift through..."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Monday, 30th November...<strong>_

_Harry walked through stark white halls, boots thudding against marble and tile as he turned a corner into a smaller corridor. Suddenly, he was before a giant, arched door, swaying on his feet. Looking around, the edges of his vision blurred, and he felt his body give out before his mind, dropping him, in what felt like slow motion, to the floor._

_Hovering above him, two silhouetted figures reached forward, blocking his light as they moved closer, closer..._

Harry gasped and rolled around in his bed, blinking awake. As he regained consciousness, he tried to grasp pieces of the dream, bits that were slipping away as he breathed. He was remembering more, slowly, every day. It was as if their research was triggering his mind even in sleep, to stretch and hunt down what he desperately needed to find, inside his own mind, buried from his conscious view.

It all connected somehow. Answers seemed possible in dreams, and in those brief moments as he woke from them. But calming his breathing against his bedsheets, he slipped back to uncertainty.

A desperate, sickening part of him longed for Hermione, for the missing portion of who they were, the part that could help them, if only-

He rolled and sat up, slipping on his glasses, squinting at the slowly fading night, sun rising distantly through his window in sheets of gray-purple and light pink.

He felt yet another connection today, a receding interest in the Hermione he'd once known, the further and further he moved away from his dream. When he thought of all they'd done together, he no longer felt the same emotional attachment to their shared history. There had been love, then bitterness, then anger and betrayal. And even those, even now, felt foggy and blank and muted by days.

Ron interrupted Harry's thoughts with a sharp snore, and Harry's heart broke not for the friend that they had lost, or for the love that Ron had put behind him, but for every memory he couldn't sense in the way he once had. They washed around his mind on a loop like a list of facts and figures, devoid of emotional importance.

Another day. Another read through the library. Another night to study. And all somehow paling as he waited... for the night. For the chance to dream again and _feel_...

* * *

><p>"Thank you, Professor," Hermione said as she exited McGonagall's office, brushing soot from her robes. She'd make it on time to her afternoon class if she hurried. She'd taken to sitting in the back, and had become rather numb to the presence of Ron and Harry, far up in the front to her left. If she never turned her head, she'd never even see them. The worst luck would be a fiery, accidental glimpse of his hair, if the sun moved just right over the castle walls to catch the top of his copper head, nearly blinding her.<p>

She sniffed and clutched her books and walked along the corridor without considering the curious stares of her classmates. It had become commonplace to hear whispers and see the signs of everyone else slowly noticing the broken nature of her friendship with Ron and Harry, and what was certainly once _meant _to be a blush-inducing love story of her childhood jealousy turned teenage love for the former...

It didn't do to dwell on things she could not control. A lesson she had to consistently relearn...

And when would he retrieve his memory from the damn pensieve? It wasn't temptation, that made her long for him to reclaim it, but it was something less than closure, in knowing it was there for her. She'd memorized every nuance. Certainly she never needed to see it again to remember every bloody detail. Perhaps he didn't want it back. But she knew, as well as she'd once known _him_, that if he never came for it, he'd not quite heal properly. And while there was an obvious, selfish part of her that wanted to keep every door open, the was a much more prominent part that wanted him to be alright, no matter what that meant...

* * *

><p>Harry was too lost in his own head to comprehend his reading. He watched as Ron scanned page after page of the same bloody books, squinting as if an answer was buried between the lines. If they could make it through the end of term, they'd have the holidays to go to the Ministry library and look for more. But Harry was wary of the mere thought of the Ministry, and he breathed deeply to stamp down his unease.<p>

They'd be at the Burrow in less than three weeks. He both longed for and dreaded their days there, knowing that Ron's mother would pick up where she left off, giving Ron that look of utter pity and sadness, reminding him every moment what he had to be sad _about_.

"Maybe we should go to the Ministry," Ron said seriously, interrupting Harry's thoughts, "to talk to the Auror department. If our memories really _have_ been stolen or tampered with, that's a crime, and they ought to know. We should file a report-"

"No," Harry cut in abruptly, swallowing thickly. He was nearly shocked at his own reaction. After all, Ron's words made a lot of sense. In some ways, his plan contained more logic than half of their childhood mistakes had afforded them before. But Harry knew, beyond a doubt, that they could not tell anyone about this... least of all the Auror department.

"What do you mean?" and Ron paused, staring across the table at Harry, curiously.

"In my dream," Harry began, hoarsely, "it's becoming a little more clear. I think... no, I _know_... that I'm in the corridors around the centre of the Auror department when I'm falling to the floor." He swallowed again, watching Ron's eyes dart as he waited for more. "And the two figures that come before I pass out completely... I think... I think they're Aurors."

Ron blinked, eyes widening.

"What? !"

"I can't see their faces," Harry pressed on, "but... I don't know how to explain it. I don't know why I sense it. But I do. Something about the silhouette of their robes. But it's more than that."

"You think they did something to you?" Ron whispered, harshly. "You think they're_ in _on some kind of _plot_?"

"I can't be sure," Harry whispered back, "but all I know is the way it makes me feel, to even consider going there for answers. I'd been thinking all afternoon about the Ministry library, or going back to the spot from my dreams. But it terrifies me to even have the thought."

Ron's eyes widened another fraction.

"But Harry," he said, "then that's got to mean something! If it makes you feel uneasy to think of going there, then that's exactly why we've _got _to go!"

Harry rubbed a hand across his stubble, stomach flipping. Ron leaned further across the table, lowering his voice to nearly inaudible.

"We'll get out the cloak, sneak off to the place in your dream. No one has to know why we're there, or even that we're there at all."

Harry knew, in a way, that Ron was correct. He only hoped that when they went, and it was inevitable now that they _must_, that his memory would trigger, that _something _would click, and that they'd finally break through to an answer or at least a clue.

Because though he wouldn't tell Ron, he wasn't honestly sure how much more he had in him. He wasn't sure he could continue like this for much longer, with every day sucking another ounce of hope and feeling from his past...

* * *

><p><em>Go on, go on you're only obeying orders<br>To be failed by a false heart_


	16. You Take Form with Ink & Blood, Part 4

_**A/N:** So, I didn't quite do the chapter I was expecting to! I realized I actually wanted to focus more on one particular obstacle that needed to be addressed before all the characters could be where they needed to be to get onto the next big part of uncovering the mystery. _

_So, I apologize for this chapter not being quite what I'd implied that it would be. However, I have started the next part and am working hard to get it to you as soon as possible! _

_I will be out of town over the weekend with no internet access, but I always update my **Twitter** with info on story progress when I'm working, so if you ever want to ask me anything or see how it's going, you can feel free to follow me on Twitter or just tweet me with a question. It's really the best way to reach me when I don't have internet access because my phone HATES this website! :)_

_ twitter #! / TradeMarkBlue (remove the spaces)_**  
><strong>

___Companion track:  
>The Joy Formidable, "The Magnifying Glass" -<br>www . youtube watch?v=AtE1IAiudCw [remove spaces]___

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><p><strong>Chapter Five - You Take Form With Ink and Blood, Part Four<strong>

The Joy Formidable - The Magnifying Glass

_**Saturday, 5th December...**_

He'd just played Quidditch in the snow. Somehow he'd managed _not _to botch the match. In fact, he'd been on his game all day, and had succeeded in practically winning the match single handedly for Gryffindor, after a very close run in with Ravenclaw, who had improved vastly from former years and was putting up a serious fight. Harry had caught the snitch with 140 down, and only due to Ron managing to block nine attempted goals in a row as he watched Harry in the skies high above, zipping and zooming back and forth in pursuit of the snitch.

Now that it was over, however, all Ron wanted to do was disappear. He was being swarmed inside the Gryffindor tent, half-dressed and tired, cold and unwilling to go on grinning and accepting the praise that his classmates were showering him with. He recognized the irony that when he finally had what he'd once thought he wanted, it seemed he didn't quite want it anymore after all.

The sky was a blinding sort of gray when he emerged from the tent, effectively sneaking past a group of giggling girls by pulling a wool cap as far down over his flaming hair as possible. He breathed in the cold air of December and trudged through rapidly thickening snow towards the castle. He'd once felt so alive here, happy in a lot of ways, even in the midst of fear. He'd had something he now wondered if he'd taken for granted all those years. Friendship. And not simply made up of casual companionships to share notes or sit together at meals. He'd had unending trust, a feeling of complete security in another person. In _two _others. He wouldn't have blinked before dying for either of them.

Now what did he have?

Harry was and would always be closer than a brother to him. But he felt hollow inside, day to day. He felt the missing pieces of something much greater than love. It wasn't that he was stuck, necessarily, in trying to get over her. It was that he was suddenly being shown the hole in his soul where she'd been since he was eleven years old. This is what it looked like to be without her. She'd been so much more tangled up in him than he'd even realised.

He tugged on his cap to keep it down over his ears as he reached the courtyard, ducking under the latticed walkway along the left side. Soft snow melted through wool to his hair as he warmed a bit, covered by stone overhead. He could feel the beckoning heat of the castle halls just ahead, could see students milling around through the frosted glass for a lazy post-Quidditch Saturday. And he longed to join them as they smiled, pushing through double doors.

Warmth spread through him as he paused to close his eyes, breathing deeply.

Suddenly, he was overcome with a thought and his eyes popped open again.

The memory. _His _memory. All alone in the Room of Requirement.

He swallowed and tried to ignore it, because he'd stamped this down before. He'd pushed aside his thoughts of it, forgotten to remember what the memory had been like to witness. What it had felt like to remove it. The relief that had washed over him and cloaked him temporarily from accepting the truth.

Harry was _right _of course. Damn him. Ron needed that memory, like he needed every other piece of who he was. But the biggest part that _was _missing wasn't that effing memory. It was the girl who had created it. So what did it matter if Ron never took that pain fully back onto his own shoulders? He was doing just fine without her. She was never going to be who she once was to him. In fact, with every day, he lost his grip on what she _had _been, exactly. Fear crept up each time he stopped to try and remember, failing to really get a handle on the feelings that had once been associated with the facts.

But wasn't that what they were doing? Excitement bubbled at the adventure, at knowing what they had planned for Christmas break. Ron was sure this was important, that there was a clue to be found and that if anyone could find it, they could.

But all the adventure in the world could not stop him from fearing the day when he'd leave the castle for weeks with no way to retrieve what he'd given to Hermione. A sodding memory. But a burning, open wound that would not heal or even scar until he forced it back into place.

"Fucking hell..." he breathed, as a last pair of girls wandered past him leisurely to the left, disappearing around a corner at the end of the hall. He had no choice. Might as well get it over with.

And so, he trudged right, curving with the outside rim of the castle corridors before angling inward, left, to wait for a set of moving stairs to come and fetch him.

He could walk this path in his sleep. And so, his mind wandered as he moved through the castle, up flights of stairs, cutting through tapestry shortcuts. Emerging from one of them, he glanced right, down a rarely used corridor...

And he saw her.

Covered in soot and shaking.

She was standing just outside of McGonagall's office, trembling from head to toe and brushing soot from her robes with both hands, her books scattered in a heap on the floor to her left. Eyes wide, he took a silent step backwards, hiding halfway through the tapestry again. He tried to look away from her, to straighten his posture and wait for her to leave before proceeding. He could even turn back, find another passage through this section of the castle. He knew them all by heart. But he couldn't stop craning his neck to peer out at her solitary moment. He wasn't supposed to see this, whether it was good for _him _or not. Beside that point entirely was the fact that he was blatantly spying on her now. From this point forward, if he didn't walk away, he was being an arse.

But what the hell was she doing? She almost seemed hurt, the way she was sporadically trembling. He swallowed, realising that a lump had formed solidly in his throat and he could hardly breathe. What the bloody hell was he supposed to do?

He couldn't leave her like this if she was hurt. He might not have wanted it to be true, but it was. What kind of a person would he be to abandon someone who might need his help out of a selfish need to never actually have to see or speak to them ever again? He'd done a miraculous job of avoiding her for so long. Of course it nearly made sense that he'd be faced with a choice like this right now, after just making such a difficult one to come down here anyway. His mission to retrieve his memory was driven by his own heart warring and losing to his head. And now his heart, which had been lying somewhere under a rock since the battle had been lost, was being pried back out again before it was ready.

Clutching the edge of the tapestry, his eyes seemed to focus on every bit of her, all at once.

"Hermione?" he called, and he jumped at the sound of his own voice. What the _fuck _was he doing? !

She gasped and turned to face him, still so far away down the corridor, eyes wide and round as she searched for the source of his voice. He realised how hidden he still was, halfway buried in tapestry, and he had a frantic moment of wondering if he could just remain here, completely still and holding his breath... and if she might think she'd only _imagined _his voice calling out to her. Maybe she'd give up and go...

But his feet betrayed him, as everything seemed to be doing all of a sudden. And he stepped out fully into the corridor to face her.

"I don't want to talk to you," he said, brain finally catching up to the situation. "I don't want to _see_ you. I just want to know if you're okay. I thought you might be hurt, and I wasn't going to leave you if you were."

Even from this distance, he could see the tears already pooling in her eyes, and he focused frantically on keeping his face completely expressionless and neutral. He could not let her see how mixed up he really felt.

"I'm not hurt," she said, voice epicly tiny.

He froze, breath caught in his throat as his stomach dropped unpleasantly. Was this... _disappointment_? Shit, he'd _wanted _her to be injured or unwell? Of course the way he'd _put _it... He was only here for her if she needed his help. Goddamn it.

She could have taken advantage. She could have acted a part and made him come closer. He might have even _touched _her.

The hall filled with tension, so thick and uncomfortable as to nearly drown him.

"I'm s-sorry I b-bothered you," he choked out, suddenly on the verge of breaking down completely. And of course she'd heard the way he'd struggled to string five words together. Fuck.

Without another beat, he ripped his eyes away from hers and darted back through the tapestry, boots skidding on the rough stone floor. Wrenching himself through into the corridor on the other side, he felt as if he was running from some sort of threat. He had to get away. Panic built at the idea that perhaps she was following him... or what if he heard her calling his name?

He lost track of where he was going, ducking through passageways and skimming along underused halls until he was dizzy with his lack of direction. Panting, he planted his back against a wall at last, scanning his surroundings to orient himself. And that was when he felt it. Hot tears running off the edge of his jaw to glide down and pool in the hollows of his collarbones.

This was shit.

"Arsehole," he swore at himself, under his breath. Curiosity about what he'd seen, the soot on her robes and that uncontrollable shivering, was creeping its way up his spine. But he tried to _physically _stop it, pressing his body more firmly against the wall behind him.

This was not okay.

He still cared so effing much about a person who'd ruined him.

And so, with a renewed sense of purpose, he pushed away from the wall and stood tall, securing his bearings before turning firmly to the left and practically marching his way down to his doom. He would get his sodding memory back. He'd get it because no matter how painful, no matter how bloody awful, it was _his_. It belonged to _him_.

And he wanted her all the way out of his heart.

This could very well be the way to do it, and to do it properly. This time.

* * *

><p>She wasn't sure how long she remained there, using the wall behind her for support.<p>

He'd called her name!

It had nearly been something from a dream. But actually taking in that he was _real_, as he revealed himself to her wide eyes, stepping out from behind that tapestry... How long had he been standing there, watching her? She almost didn't want to think about it.

What must he have thought, moved to the point of needing to know if she was injured? She must have looked a complete mess to him. And what an awful way to face him now, after everything. Soot from head to toe as she'd slammed against the side of the floo moments before. Tears filling her eyes at nothing but the _idea _of the sound of his voice, real or not. Carelessness seemed to run through her with more regularity than ever before. At least... carelessness when it came to her own wellbeing.

He still cared for her, enough to mind if she died. It was a revelation that she shouldn't really have to make. Ron was such a good person. He could be catty and shallow and mean. But that was all before. The things he'd said through the years, no matter how they might have hurt her, had never been intended to put her through what they'd unknowingly succeeded in accomplishing. He'd been biting, immature and irresponsible. He'd made fun of her out of jealousy and spite. But he always cared. And not even so very deep down. How many times had their rows been halted by impending danger? How many times had he looked at her with infinite apologies in his eyes for every single time he'd been an arse to her?

And she'd been the same back to him, hadn't she? It wasn't as if she was ever completely innocent. Childish insecurity when approaching something she wasn't ready for, emotionally.

But now, after what she'd _done_.

When she examined the facts, the logic of it all, she could never blame him for leaving her in a ditch, bleeding to death, without a second thought.

She sighed at her extremity. She'd been doing so much of that lately. Something morbid or frightening would rise, an image of her own destruction, and she hated herself for the way she played it out until she was sobbing. Comparatively, was her life so bad?

It wasn't. And who was she to pity her own plight when she'd brought it on herself, unknowingly or not?

She was discovering things. She was doing what she had to do, what she'd been born to do and spent her whole life honing _how _to do. Research. Investigation. Thumbing through endless, musty volumes of old English.

She was herself. Plainly. And because she was fortunate enough to be able to be. And wasn't that enough? Shouldn't it be?

But he _cared_. And such a simple sentence quite literally stopped her version of the world. All of what she was could vanish, and as long as she could say that he cared, it didn't matter. Not one bloody ounce.

But she wasn't allowed to let her world stop. She wasn't allowed to hold her breath at the sight of him and let her heart fly at the thought of him. Who she was - her intellect and cleverness, ambition to always be right - it was all that she had left.

It didn't matter that his voice had cracked and broken as he'd moved to leave her alone. It didn't matter that she'd lied when she'd said she wasn't hurt... her whole left side was scraped and bruised to hell after her collision inside the floo. And it didn't matter that he'd stopped because he cared. Or because he didn't want it to weigh on his conscious that he'd let another person suffer when he was there and able to stop it. And she knew that maybe it didn't really matter that it had been her. He would have stopped for anyone, save perhaps a reincarnation of Voldemort himself. And sure, he might not have stopped for Bellatrix Lestrange, whom he'd once lamented was no longer still alive for him to kill...

But he would have stopped. Not just for her. Not just because...

Her head was spinning. And she needed to get properly cleaned up and bandaged, have a cup of tea and bury her nose in a dusty book. The cure for what ailed her was always the same. Because the only _real _cure, as she'd once discovered it, was now out of her reach, never to be achieved ever again.

* * *

><p>He stood before the pensieve now, nothing left between his mind and his memory save a small bit of wandwork. He grasped the edge of the glowing bowl with white knuckles, peering into swirling silver as he swallowed. This was his last moment to breathe without the weight of his nightmare there to persist, to tap him on the shoulder and remind him every day why his life didn't turn out the way he'd hoped and begged and dreamt for years that maybe it <em>could<em>...

He comforted himself in knowing that for days and weeks and months and even _years_, he'd pessimistically told himself it would never work out. She'd never love him the way he loved her. She was too good for him.

The last part, it didn't ring as true and as solid as it had then. And he could actually brush it aside. But the truth in everything else was what made him strong enough. He'd planned for this. Even as he'd desperately wished it away back then, wanting her more than anything else in all the universe... He'd still planned for a future in which he was never the one to get what he desired. Never the one to achieve the happiness he could see but wasn't able to reach.

And so today, sod the moment when he'd finally stretched high enough to see possibility. To actually stop hoping and start living. That moment had been the real mask, like a daydream charm that had lasted four months, coaxing him further and further into fantasy.

He was awake now. As much as he missed the illusion of perfect. As much as he could, in some ways, understand the viewable path to backtrack into it once again. It had been an illusion. And now that he'd ripped back the curtain, he could no longer live the lie.

He could be there again, someday... in the midst of happiness. He was sure that everyone who'd been in love this way and lost what they'd had must have lived to find it again. But the nagging part of him that told him he was being too optimistic this time didn't have a chance to grow properly before it emerged, fully formed. Because he was staring into the face of pessimism, inside a pensieve, all alone.

"Just do it," he breathed, fingernails digging painfully into the rim of the bowl.

And, at last, he withdrew his right hand and removed his wand from his pocket, wrapping his fingers around it with a strength and steadiness that belied the truth. Perhaps it was what had made him actually quite good at Auror training during his brief enrollment over the summer. He could erect a facade of calm control without so much as a flinch.

And now, twirling his wand before him, he was fooling even himself. His memory floated like a wisp of silver up from the bowl, attached by invisible string to the end of his wand. And as he bent his elbow, pulling the string along to meet his temple, he closed his eyes.

And touched the tip of his wand to the side of his head.

It was actually rather comfortable, being reunited with something lost. A cool sensation drifted through him, relaxing him as everything settled into place. And he felt the moment when it was through, when he was whole again, as his wand hand fell limply away from his temple.

He opened his eyes and paused, frozen, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

A ripple of unpleasant almost-nausea rose into the back of his throat. He breathed in erratic spurts as he hunched forward slightly, still clutching his wand but releasing his left hand's hold on the edge of the pensieve bowl.

And then it had passed, almost as quickly as it had arrived. And the vividness of each and every snapshot of that memory, that day, was not so much in the forefront as he'd thought it would be. It was there, and he forced away the thoughts that came with the memory now settling where it was supposed to go. But it was alright.

He was still going to be alright. Even as he carried this burden with him, from now on. He was meant to have it. It was a part of his life that he could not ignore. And he was whole again, in a way, with the bad _and _the good. With whatever may come.

* * *

><p><em>What shines when the eyes are dull?<br>What folds in when the hinge is gone?  
>The moth is dead without the dust<br>I'm dead without a fuss_

_The slightest weight upsets the scale  
>Simple words are turning vague<br>We're twinned but put against  
>One shape under the magnifying glass<br>Please no ad-lib; the world is cruel  
>And outside's licking lips<br>All I know, let's shed the myth  
>Let's cut out this bit and this bit<em>


	17. You Take Form with Ink & Blood, Part 5

_**A/N:** Wow. It's been so very long. I'm sorry. I've been very busy lately with work and other RL things... I can't promise I'll be able to update again on Tuesday, but my plan is to try very hard to make that happen._

___Companion track:  
>The Joy Formidable, "The Wanderer" (Johnny Cash cover) -<br>www . youtube watch?v=DvJmUN1eVuY [remove spaces]___

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five - You Take Form With Ink and Blood, Part Five<strong>

_**Wednesday, 16th December...**_

They sat together, Harry and Ron, at the Gryffindor table, Harry scanning the morning's Prophet as he ate his eggs, Ron trying to remember how good Hogwarts' beans really were by shoveling large spoonfuls into his mouth without a word.

"Don't see much of anything today," Harry said, round the remnants of a bite of toast.

"Mm," Ron grunted, swallowing loudly. "Hasn't been much going on the last few weeks. Good on the Auror department, getting along without us," and he managed a half-grin at Harry.

Harry flipped the next page of the Prophet, scanning articles absentmindedly. Ron was so used to their routine, their eyes always more fixated on a crime when the words 'muggle' or 'muggleborn' were used on the victim's side. It seemed ingrained, to bother so much about a particular thing out of loyalty to a shadow of _someone _they used to care so deeply for.

Well, and sure. They _still _cared. They still hoped to hear a tale of her parents reunited with their daughter, a morning Prophet story sure to follow if anyone important got wind of it...

_War hero reunited with parents after a year of fighting._

Sounded pretty good. Sounded like a front page headline...

And anyway. The truth remained that it mattered to _them_. That their world's recovery was the most important thing, in the end, and that they were still quite a long way from feeling completely safe and secure. Things were bound to go wrong in the wake of a war, like aftershocks following an earthquake.

They'd be going, in three days, on a mission to the place from Harry's dreams, sneaking once again into the Ministry to try and find some answers. Would they ever really be finished? Would their lives ever be normal and peaceful and quiet, or were they destined never to be allowed those resolutions and rewards for so much fear and so much fighting?

A part of Ron didn't mind. What else did he have to look forward to now? But another part was so thoroughly exhausted. He wanted to vanish, sometimes, into the walls or behind the curtains of his bed. To dream, and not the way he had been since he'd retrieved that bleeding memory.

He closed his eyes and inhaled his hot, minty tea. Why did the 'right thing' have to come with so much heartache? He could not control his subconscious, as much as he wanted to. Dreamless sleep never quite touched these- _were _they nightmares? Maybe.

Memories. Moments with her that confused every part of him upon waking. But _Harry's _dreams had led them to something that could very well be the key to understanding what had really happened and what they were missing now. And so, endure. It's what he did best, now that he understood the tragedy of leaving. Now that he had that one particular memory of her running through the woods in the rain and crying his name as he apparated away from them to remind him what it was like to give up.

"We'll be late for Potions," Harry said, cutting through Ron's unsteady thoughts.

"Right," and they stood, leaving their half-full cups of tea to grow cold and stale as they walked away.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Thursday, 17th December...<strong>_

_She was lying on top of him, in his bed at the Burrow. Wind kicked up against his windows, making them rattle in their frames. Her moon-glowing skin was all he could see as his eyes raked down her naked body, towards where her hips met his in shadow._

_He mumbled words of love up at her, words he couldn't hear. He only knew what they meant, as his heart filled with happiness and contentment. Peace._

_She brushed her disorderly hair off her shoulder and over her back to hang down in a frazzled bushel along her spine. And she leaned further over him, dropping her breasts until the tips of her hardened nipples grazed his bare, goosefleshed chest._

_She kissed his jaw, his neck, his ear... and then, she lifted her upper body again, pressing her palms to his pectorals as she gazed down into his eyes. He blinked, nearly drugged by her. And then, his eyes roamed left, to the outer edge of her right breast._

_There was a long, thin line running down the side, a scar of some sort. It angled up, all the way to her collarbone. Surely he had never seen it before. Then what the hell was it, and why was it there now?_

_As if by telepathy, he knew he'd asked her what it was, concerned. And she'd answered him, wordlessly. She'd told him not to worry, that it was nothing. A scar from the war she tried to hide. He asked why he'd never seen it before. And she sadly looked down into his eyes again, telling him with glowing brown irises that she'd hidden it from him out of disgust for it. That she covered it in charms when she wore a shirt that might show it at the top..._

_Suddenly, he was in another time and place altogether, standing with her by the lake. Her shirt was cut lower than usual and revealed the top few centimetres of her scar. Such a peculiar pattern. He wasn't sure he'd seen anything quite like it before, now that he was looking upon it in full daylight. It was almost more like a birthmark than a scar. The end of it was jagged, in such a particular way, that he felt sure he could memorize and draw it perfectly._

_Why did it matter that he could?_

And then, sweating lightly, he was suddenly breathing through his mouth, almost panting, and staring up at the cold stone ceiling of Gryffindor tower, burgundy curtains locking him inside the protective cave of his bed. Startling upright, he clutched his sheets in his fists with a sudden, persistent need to understand. Something was wrong with his memory of her. Something...

He slipped out of bed and brushed his fringe frustratedly back from his forehead, concave stomach sinking deeper inward as he hunched forward, hands on his knees as he tried to slow his breathing. He couldn't think straight like this, with a bunch of muddled images and a heightened heart rate from a memory called up in dreams... But, as he finally came down from his fantasy, back to reality, a flash of something seemingly unconnected crossed his mind as suddenly as any moment from his disturbed sleep could have.

Covered in soot.

Covered in _soot_.

Why had Hermione been standing outside of McGonagall's office that day, the last time he'd really seen her, shaking and covered in soot?

A part of him needed answers only she could give him. But another more prominent part of him refused to open that door. After lessons tomorrow, he would either be flooing or taking the train back to the Burrow with Harry and-

The floo! That was _it_! Hermione had been using McGonagall's floo! And something she'd gone away to do had shaken her, to the point where he'd found her falling apart. But why?

He stood up straight, blinking rapidly in the middle of his dark dormitory, his softly snoring dormmates all around him. A number of things crossed his mind - Hermione could have received some news, perhaps, about her parents, maybe even taken a trip to her family home for some reason... something she'd left behind?

But what if she was in _danger_? She shouldn't be traveling alone, outside of Hogwarts grounds, away from wards and protective charms-

He wasn't supposed to mind her business like this. But if she was in _danger_...

He sat back on the edge of his bed and willed himself to calm down, not to worry about her, trying to convince himself that his logic was irrational, built from a dream that had set him on edge. Hermione could take care of herself. It wasn't his place anymore... And whatever she was doing, she didn't want him to know about it, or she would have tried to find him and tell him-

But would she, _really_? He despised her - wasn't that the way it was? Or the way it was supposed to _look_?

Forcing himself onto his back, down the length of his mattress, he stared up at the stone ceiling overhead. Hours to go before lessons, he wasn't sure how he could possibly get back to sleep. But now, in the middle of the night, she was surely tucked away in her bed on the other side of the tower. Out of danger...

* * *

><p>Hermione was refolding her clothes and repacking her trunk, a task that was as useless and unnecessary as possible, though she had to do <em>something<em>, and sleep wasn't particularly an option tonight. She still felt rattled from another floo journey hours ago, and slightly hungry from missing dinner yet again, but it was hard to focus on hunger when her stomach was in such a twisted knot all the time from anxiety.

She paused mid-task to sigh lightly and cross to the window beside her dormitory bed, pressing her bare palm against the cool glass and closing her eyes.

Inexplicably, as she stood frozen, breathing to relax her nerves, it was suddenly as if someone was watching her. Closely.

She gasped lightly and opened her eyes wide, staring without blinking out the window, towards the grounds. With a soft, thumping panic through her heart and veins, she turned round and scanned her dormitory, listening with rapt attention to any sounds out of the ordinary. Half relieved when she heard and saw nothing, but still slightly on edge, she turned back to look out the window again, making a more thorough inquiry off into the distance...

And then, she saw it. A shadowy almost-figure at the very edge of the grounds... Must have been just outside the wards. Her lips parted and she took in a shaky breath of shock as she watched, unable to move or make a sound. Her eyes stung as she forced them to remain open, not to blink and risk losing sight of this figure...

But then, as quickly as she'd been sure she'd seen it, the silhouette of whatever it had been seemed to merge with the shadow of a nearby tree. And had she really seen anything at all? Doubt filling her, she pressed her nose to the window and stared directly at the spot, trying desperately to discern the tree's shadow from anything else that could be standing within it. But, on her next exhale, her breath clouded the window, and she pushed back from the glass frustratedly, tugging the end of her sleeve over her hand to frantically rub away the condensation.

It was no use, like a dream drifting away from you the more you tried to recall it. She'd been so certain of what she had seen. But why, with each second that ticked past, did she feel less and less confident in her own memory? It must have been... _nothing_. Surely.

Her heart rate was slowing, and she felt irrational. The war was over. And yes, threats were still very real. But the school was protected. And how many people could she have seen down there? A teacher on a night stroll? Unlikely, but possible. And certainly more possible than assuming the worst at every glance.

Or assuming the world still revolved around her _own _small world, tucked within it. Those days were gone.

She couldn't afford to think about them now, how they'd been together, the three of them. She had a trunk to pack, for the fifth time. She had other things to focus on now. She had sleep to avoid and thoughts of the holidays without her parents safely home with her to shove into a deep corner of her mind, with all the other rubbish... with Ron's piercing eyes and angry words and promises to never again be what he once was to her…

* * *

><p><em><strong>Friday, 18th December...<strong>_

They had chosen the train, Ron and Harry, even as McGonagall had given them a comically high raise of her eyebrows. They could floo and be home in moments. But perhaps it was the nostalgia that sent them hiking instead to the carriages, riding in silence to Hogsmeade Station, and boarding the Hogwarts Express with a small chaos of students far too excited for the holiday.

"Anywhere empty?" Ron asked, Harry leading the way through the train's main corridor.

"Got to be," Harry said, ducking his head into compartment after compartment. "Most of our year chose the floo. McGonagall's letting anybody through that way this year. Guess people are just tired and sort of put off by the train after everything that happened last year..."

"Reckon so."

"Here's one," and Harry sidestepped through the open door.

Ron followed, ducking his head slightly to avoid hitting it on the top of the door frame.

"Stop growing," Harry snorted, rolling his eyes as Ron stood up straight again and reached back to shut the compartment door behind him.

"Can't bloody help it, can I!"

Harry laughed lightly, and the two of them sank onto benches across from each other, dropping their rucksacks on the floor between them with two small thuds. No point bringing their whole trunks home over holidays anymore. They had learned to pack light...

"Since you chose unwisely," Harry began, "do you have to be on Prefect duty for the ride?"

"Damn, hadn't thought of that," Ron sniffed.

"The floo sounding better now?" Harry smirked, casually propping his feet up on Ron's bench, just to the left of Ron's thigh. Ron shoved Harry's feet down to the floor again with a clunk and slouched against the back of his bench, smirking.

"Oh, _now _you're happy it wasn't you chosen?" Ron teased. "Tosser."

"Hey, I was always fine with you being chosen as Prefect!"

"Hilarious," Ron snorted. "You were such a moody git about it when me and Hermi-"

Ron cut himself off and swallowed. Harry's expression turned very guilty and sad, but Ron quickly shook his head, confidently assuring Harry that he was fine.

They fell into not completely comfortable silence as the train moved out of the station, the repetitive sounds from the engine and wheels against tracks lulling Ron away from the moment and into his own head. It wasn't an entirely dangerous place to be anymore. He had things to consider that didn't all have to do with her.

But, as the minutes passed, he pressed his forehead against the cool train car window, and exhaled, fogging the glass.

And an image, etched deeply into his subconscious, flashed against his will before his eyes as they fell shut.

Hermione. Shaking in the middle of an empty corridor. Covered in soot.

* * *

><p>"Happy Christmas, Ron!" shouted Bill the moment Ron entered the kitchen, clapping his brother across the back, startling a cough out of him.<p>

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Ron choked, shaking his head. "We've got another week before Mum's pies..."

"Hey, that's not the _best _thing about the holiday-" Bill started, but Ron glared at him as if daring him to find another thing better. "Alright, you win," Bill conceded, laughing, and Ron managed a smile before drifting off into the sitting room to join Harry and Ginny round the fire.

They were engaged in a quiet game of chess, sitting in the centre of the worn, oval-shaped rug that covered a good half of the sitting room floor. But Ron felt no urge to look on and strategize. Instead, he slumped into a large, overstuffed armchair and let his eyes shut halfway. Charlie was soon bustling close by, and Ron smiled up at him blearily as he shoved a half full glass of brandy into Ron's slack hand. Charlie's wide smile and hand clasping around Ron's brought him back to life enough to grip the glass firmly for himself and hunch forward to take a swig. At the strong, smooth taste of the drink, Ron shivered his head back and forth, hair fanning around him for a moment. The warmth from the fire and the drink combined to make him feel rather heavy and lazy, even more so than usual... and he was soon downing the last drops of his brandy, his hand slipping until he was slouched back in his chair, bony too-long legs bent sharply at the knee, far away from the front edge of his seat cushion. And his now-empty glass hung slack, his wrist bent down over the front of the arm of his chair, his fingertips vaguely clinging to his glass around the rim.

And slowly, nothing really seemed to matter. The soft sounds of his family all around him, happy and together for the first time in recent memory, made him so thankful that he could really feel it... the way it could be not to care. Not to be strangled by such a grief that he could nearly forget what it was to be freed.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Saturday, 19th December, 1998...<strong>_

It was early morning, not even hinting at dawn, when Ron awoke, a thin layer of sweat coating his skin, effectively clinging his threadbare pyjama bottoms to his legs. Almost as if being pulled from sleep for a resounding purpose, he could do nothing but sit up, slide out of bed, and stuff his torso into the nearest lopsided jumper, ignoring the way the material scratched his warm, sensitive skin.

A pair of slightly too small gray jeans sat half-rumpled on top of his desk, and he snatched them up, tossing them onto his bed as he peeled his cotton pyjamas from his legs. He reached for the jeans again and shook them out, not caring that his ankles would probably show below the bottom hem and above the tops of his socks… or that the faded denim had definitely shrunk over the years. Tugging hard, he worked his jeans up to a spot low on his waist where he buttoned and zipped, biceps seizing uncomfortably with nerves.

And then, brushing his hair off his forehead, he threw open his door and crossed out onto the landing to make his way downstairs.

They had planned for this, but Ron hadn't even needed to wait for his alarm this morning. Once he'd left the sitting room and come upstairs to bed last night, he'd hardly been able to sleep, and what little he had gotten was marred by strange almost-dreams and restless tossing and turning. Something about today seemed to keep him going, the approaching moment when they'd apparate away for London making him too giddy to think straight. Should he be this excited, anticipating this much when he had no idea what they'd really find?

As he thumped down onto the second landing, he heard the soft sound of a door clicking shut a floor above, and he knew it was Harry. So he paused, leaned against the wall next to Ginny's door, and waited. Harry came into view after a moment, working his way downstairs much more quietly than Ron had, seconds ago.

"Trying to wake the whole house?" Harry asked, but Ron caught the obvious edge of nervousness in Harry's voice and knew Harry's joke was meant to try and cover for it. But Ron was all too familiar with such a tactic, so he shrugged anyway, giving Harry a half-smile as they turned to continue downstairs together.

Silently, they arrived at the back door, slipping their feet into their trainers, and Ron opened the screen, wincing when it banged back with a creak and a thud against the outside of the house. They stepped out onto the porch, hunching against the cold, and they crunched their feet through frosty grass and weeds down into the garden.

Ron turned to face Harry at last, and he sighed, his breath coming out in a puff of smoke. Even in the dark he could see Harry swallowing, his neck moving exaggeratedly.

They stared across the moonlit air at each other, an owl hooting in the distance. And then, breaking, they began to smile... the almost-relieved smile of being able to nearly see over to the other side of a mountain.

"Bloody hell," Ron laughed, and he pulled Harry to him, hugging him tightly, clamping his arms around him in a vice grip.

When, at last, they pulled back from each other, Harry nodded, and Ron echoed his sentiment with a nod of his own, eyes sparkling like they hadn't done since mid-August.

"Harry, even if it's rubbish, even if we find nothing today," Ron began, "thank you. I mean that. For shaking me and giving me _something_. Doesn't it almost feel like old times? I'm not sure I even know what to do with myself anymore without a bloody adventure all planned out."

"Yeah," Harry laughed, and Ron grinned again.

"So?" Ron prodded, grin fading as he felt his heart rate increase.

"Let's do this," Harry whispered, roughly, and Ron nodded again as Harry took his arm, turning them away and disapparating with two back-to-back pops, ringing in Ron's ears even as they arrived just outside of the Ministry's visitors' entrance. Fuck the law, if a Muggle caught them today.

For some reason, the idea of being discreet, of doing something they weren't allowed to be doing, even though they could probably have gained permission fairly easily, was making their limited number of excuses not to go through regular channels seem even more concrete and sensible. It was as if, on some level, they had reverted back to their childhood days of mystery and intrigue, seeking out refuge in having a puzzle to solve.

Ron entered the phone booth first, with familiarity, typing the code into the phone as Harry shifted inside, next to him. They waited as the booth finally began to lower, through the ground. Crammed in together, Harry bounced slightly on his feet, Ron tapping his fingers against his thigh, both of them giddy with the start of opening a new book, having this new world to explore and unriddle.

At last, they were face to face with the inside of the darkened Ministry, and as the phone booth landed softly in the middle of the atrium, they took one last audible breath and stepped out, Harry cautiously finding Ron's eyes and making a quick decision to move to the right edge of the room, away from the front offices, to make their way round to the lifts. Part of their training had already been discretion, and at the start of their lessons they'd already been so good at it from years of experience that they could now, quite likely, break into any location without being caught.

Their path up to the Auror department was eerily silent, every noise seeming to deafen and startle them against the dead quiet backdrop of the middle of the night. As they reached the Department of Magical Law, they headed down a darkly carpeted hallway, passing bronze plaques adorning the left wall, familiar so far with their direction through these corridors, from their time in training.

They skidded around a corner, shoes scuffing the dark polished wood floor of the centre of the department, and, spying the front counters off to the left, they shuffled right, away from the night staff, softly banging right again, through a door that led down a much more narrow corridor, twisting and branching off at odd places as they went. On and on.

Finally, Harry paused, gripping Ron's elbow as he looked left, then right, before swallowing visibly. So far, their journey had been simple. But now, Ron was reminded of the real purpose of being here, of what Harry had seen and how they had come here to find a hint of an answer.

"That way," Harry said, pointing left, and they turned, nearly jogging down the quiet hall until they'd reached a door to the left that made Harry pause, slowing down with a memory... "It's where I caught up with... Paul," Harry whispered, "when I came to find him over the summer. He was standing outside this door, remember when I told you? And I swear it means something..."

Ron didn't want to think about the possibilities of Paul somehow being involved in whatever was causing his and Harry's fading memory and shifting emotional attachment to their past... He could not allow himself the hope that Paul being involved was surely so very important to what had happened between himself and-

No.

He pushed away everything that wasn't based in pure logic, anything that made him feel. And with a deep breath, Ron shoved the door open.

He froze. He wasn't breathing. His eyes widened to two nearly perfect circles at the sight before him.

But when, at last, his pounding heart had served to remind him that he was still alive and very much present here in this moment, he knew he could find it in himself to speak.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he nearly growled, voice low and deep.

* * *

><p><em>Yeah, I went with nothing<br>Nothing but the thought of you  
>I went wandering<br>I went with nothing  
>But the thought you'd be there, too<br>Looking for you_


	18. You Take Form with Ink & Blood, Part 6

___Companion track:  
>The Joy Formidable, "Chapter 2" -<br>www . youtube watch?v=49eGjbN79W4 [remove spaces]___

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five - You Take Form With Ink and Blood, Part Six<strong>

Gasping sharply, Hermione dropped her quill, with an echoing clatter, to the high tabletop in front of where she stood. Across the room, Ron's eyes met hers, and she felt as though her whole body had been instantly set on fire from the fierceness of his gaze.

Harry squeezed in between Ron and the door frame to get his own look at what was going on. His eyes widened as he moved halfway in front of Ron, spotting Hermione, though she could hardly spare a thought for Harry, with Ron's eyes still piercing through hers, his lips parted as he breathed raggedly through his mouth, waiting for her to speak.

She inhaled with a heave of her chest, and her fingers were trembling against the edge of the table before her.

"Wh-What are _y-you _doing here?" she sputtered, and her voice cracked as she stalled for time to collect some semblance of a real thought, collapsing under the weight of Ron's eyes... his lanky frame shoved carelessly into a jumper with a lopsided, stretched out neck hole... jeans that rested so low on his hips that they might have been held in place solely by magic... denim clinging to his thighs... a thin, horizontal strip of pale, freckled torso visible at the exact right height for her to clearly see the definition of his hipbones straining against the inside of his tight skin...

"We asked you first," Ron demanded, standing his ground halfway through the door, with Harry one small step in front of him.

She could hardly move. How was it possible that he was here, right now? And yet, despite all of her tired longing and relief at suddenly not being so terribly alone with her work, with the middle of the night in a deserted section of such a cold, currently uninviting building... despite all of that, her presence seemed to offend him beyond what was normal, beyond his general dislike of her for what she'd done to him. Was it possible, then, that something about her presence here actually made him... _suspicious_?

Of what?

She had so very many things to sort out. So many questions. But he was growing visibly frustrated, glaring at her, waiting for an explanation.

"I've been coming here... for a while now," she breathed, desperately trying to ignore the way his presence, blocking her only exit, was making her feel. Trapped, unnerved... and somehow incredibly safe, all at the same time. It was so irrational, and so unfair. She could have almost cried, broken down from hours, days, weeks, no _months _of loneliness, pages and pages of books and notes and ink stains and dusty sneezes...

But she couldn't. She swallowed what she felt. She stamped down the shock at his presence, at finding herself suddenly face to face with all she loved, all she could never have...

"Professor McGonagall gave me permission to floo here after lessons," she continued, through a constricted chest and throat. "I wanted to try and help with the search for my parents."

She trembled out a sigh as her eyes tilted down to fix solidly on her own stacks of notes and papers in front of her, spread across her table. And she let her eyes go out of focus. It was too hard to think straight with Ron just _there_. Watching her.

"But the first time I came here, after checking in with Magical Law, I discovered that there had never been a case opened on Tom and Heather Granger _or _Wendell and Monica Wilkins! Do you know what that means?" and she finally looked back to catch Harry's eyes, as he furrowed his brow. "The Auror department hasn't even been looking for my parents! Don't you find that a bit odd?"

After a lingering moment, Harry stepped the rest of the way into the room, breaking some of the awkward tension, letting out a soft breath. But Ron now fixed his eyes pointedly away from her, refusing to move, and his expression had morphed from shocked and demanding to annoyed and disappointed.

"Do you want to hear my theory?" Hermione tried, heart beating in her ears now as Ron finally stepped forward, allowing the door to slowly click shut. And he slouched sideways, against the wall to his left, crossing his arms over his chest, ignoring her so acutely that she wanted to drop through the floor and vanish. Moreso than perhaps she already had...

With no reply from either of them, and sensing that none would be forthcoming, she cleared her throat and pressed onward anyway. This was important. And now that they were here, she had to tell them what she'd been suspecting, no matter how angry it made them. No matter how Ron would want to run from her and hate her even more for dragging out the things she was supposed to be forgetting...

"I think we were tampered with," she said, mustering all of her courage, "after the war. Someone changed us. To tear us apart. To keep us away from the Ministry. I don't know."

And for a moment, holding her breath, her curiosity outweighed her fear, and she sought Ron's eyes again, beneath his fringe from where he was staring down, eyes seemingly fixed somewhere near the spot where the front legs of her table met the scuffed wood of the floor. And then, she saw it - a tiny dart of his eyes, hardly noticeable from this distance, with such thick copper hair blocking shards of her view.

She had sent out a spark, and he wasn't putting it out. Not completely. He was waiting, to see what it meant. Was it possible that he cared, just a tiny bit? And that maybe, her discoveries and theories could be considered, even for a moment, to be slightly less than rubbish?

"I know I said I would stop trying to figure it out," she almost whispered, because she needed for him to understand. She needed for Harry to as well. After all, in as many words, she'd nearly made a promise to Harry, to give this up for Ron's sake... "But," she continued, remembering how she'd gotten here, how she'd fought against all odds, against all denials from those she loved... and she held her head up high. "But this isn't about... me and Ron."

She saw him flinch, and it stung so very deeply to watch. Every acknowledgment and tiny reminder of the way things were.

"I have to know what really happened, for _me_." she pressed on. "I know you don't believe it, but..." and she sighed gently, looking back down at her notes, because at last, it had come to her heart, through all the exterior forces and walls she'd built to hold things as far away as she could. "Even though we'll never be the way we were, even though we'll never be _together _again, how can I just go on with a chunk of my life missing from my memory? I have to find it. And I have to find _them_, my parents. And when I do, I think I'll be able to make sense of it. And I can make peace when I can remember. I'll be able to properly... grieve... and-and _pay _for what I did, what _you _remember that I can't. Harry," and she looked back up to find him watching her, a blank, unreadable expression on his face, "you were right. Good or bad, I need those memories. I can't run away from it."

He gave her the smallest of nods, and a flash of sadness crossed over him before he wiped his face blank again.

"Alright," Ron rasped, and Hermione jumped visibly at the sound of his voice, her eyes snapping back to him as he continued to stare down, talking as if through gravel. "But do you realise where you are... this _room_?"

"I..." Hermione began, as she sensed where this question was leading. And she knew the answer, though she could hardly bring herself to say it, to say _his _vile name with Ron so close... "I believe this is where Harry saw... where he met up with..."

"Yeah," Ron interrupted, harsh bitterness oozing from just one word. "It's where I would have beat the shit out of your boyfriend if Harry hadn't stopped me." And Ron's eyes flashed up, through his fringe, to give her the slightest of looks, locked in fear of lingering too long. His eyes were only there for half a second, but it was far more than enough time to stop her heart.

She couldn't deal with this now. Her eyes were already burning with tears, and she had to change the subject, to get back to something real and scientific... logical and void of emotion.

"Hang on, I don't believe you've told me why _you're _here, in the middle of the night," she directed towards Harry, tightening her grip on the edge of her table as she waited for his answer.

"It's actually kind of... well," Harry began, sighing and arching his eyebrows as if he didn't really want to admit what he was about to say anyway, "it's a bit odd that you'd be in the very room where I dreamt I was being... cursed. Or... or mucked with. Whatever it was that I can't seem to figure out."

Hermione's eyes widened with shock. So Harry had been dreaming. And whatever he'd dreamt was enough to drag Ron along with him to this place, even after such a heartbreaking association had been formed with it for him. He'd walk back in here on a dream... for what? Could it possibly mean that he hadn't given up all hope after all?

But then she couldn't afford to think like that. She'd made that very clear to herself when she'd started this. It was research. It was books and notes and facts until she was absolutely certain.

"You've been having a nightmare," Hermione began, staring Harry down as he looked up at her, fully, "of this room?"

"Two figures, holding me down or something... I can't see their faces. But I think..." and he lowered his voice, swallowing before continuing, "I think one of them works for the Ministry. Maybe an Auror, actually..."

"I've been having fucked up dreams, too," Ron cut in, voice still rough and low, and it sent shivers down her spine, almost as if every time he spoke now, it was some kind of miracle, awakening the part of her she'd tried to kill, for his own sake.

"Ohh, then it's _got _to mean something..." she let herself trail off, heart pounding wildly.

They were here. They'd followed a trail to this room, and Harry believed, or at least highly suspected, that he'd been altered or _mucked with_, as he'd so eloquently put it.

"Harry, what if it's all connected?" and she forced her eyes not to falter as she stared across her table at Harry, Ron drifting into the blurry outside edges of her peripherals. "My parents, the Auror department's lack of research... and _your _Auror, the one who may have-"

"We don't know anything for sure," Harry reasoned, "but we felt like... like we had to come here to see if it jogged any memories, or if we could find a clue as to what the hell is really going on."

"I've found a few things that are rather strange. I actually went back to a book I'd been looking at with you, Harry, when we were in the library that last day we were researching-" she piped up, grabbing for a specific stack of notes and outstretching her arm, over her table, as Harry stepped up to take them from her.

His hand had no sooner closed around the pile of parchment than his eyes had flashed, angry and tense.

"What is this rubbish?" he shouted. "You're going down the wrong path. Hermione, none of it means _anything_! You've got to stop-" and both of his hands suddenly grasped the edge of her notes, ready to rip the whole stack in two.

"Harry!" she shouted, shocked. She was on the point of going for her _wand _to try and stop Harry...

But Ron beat her to it with his bare hands, lunging across the room and wrenching the parchment from Harry's grip, wrinkling it and tearing a corner away from the top sheet. But he'd saved the whole lot from certain doom, and she could do nothing but gasp between the two of them.

"What the bloody hell are you playing at?!" Ron nearly roared at Harry. And Harry's eyes were fading, like he'd been suddenly drugged or hit over the top of the head, dazed as he was coming down from a rage.

"Woah..." and Harry drifted back away from Ron, shaking his head in aftershock. "I need to talk to you," he directed at Ron, somewhat urgently, "but not in here. Come outside for a second..." and he turned around, nearly bolting from the room, ripping open the door with shaky hands and sliding out into the hallway. The door slipped back shut again with a click.

Ron was still clutching her papers, eyes on the door. Without thinking about what she was doing, Hermione was suddenly reaching for him...

"Ron," she said so lightly, and before she could stop herself, her hand was resting on his forearm. She felt his muscles seize and could have sworn, even through the wool of his jumper, that his temperature had risen. His head whipped around to face her, and he dropped her notes with alarm, allowing them to drift and fly noisily to the floor.

In less than a second, with one fluid rotation of his arm, Ron's hand had turned outward to grab ahold of Hermione's wrist instead, and she gasped loudly, though she gave fully into his touch, skin on skin, as his fingers coiled completely around her tiny wrist.

She watched him hold his breath as their eyes met over the narrow table between them, her own eyes surely brimming with all the shock and confusion that she felt over his unexpected motion. The feeling of his skin on hers, every joint of each of his fingers and his thumb... his palm, so warm it nearly burned her. It was too much. Too sudden. And though he wasn't hurting her, his grip was almost possessive, against his will, surely...

"I..." he began, shaking his head fractionally, "you-you startled me." And he released her, one unraveled finger at a time, breaking eye contact before she could disappear.

And she would have gone, willingly, sucked into such a tiny touch. Like every molecule of his body was screaming in her direction, preparing her to melt down every ounce of logic or reason. But now that it was over, her eyes burned, wondering how she could be so see-through, so weak in his presence. She'd do anything in the world for him. Without question.

And yet, he wanted nothing to do with her. It was so clear. So painful. So real.

He bent to pick up her notes, clearing his throat, and she didn't dare watch him, busying herself with trying desperately not to cry until he'd left the room. He'd go very soon, she knew, as Harry was waiting for him just outside.

Seconds later, her notes now gathered into a haphazard pile in his hands, Ron straightened again, dropping the stack of parchment to the tabletop without looking at her. And then, he turned away, long strides cutting his path towards the door. And because she knew he wouldn't turn back around, she didn't try any longer to hold back. Tears rippled down her face as she held her breath for one more moment, until he'd disappeared through the door and out of sight. Her next exhale came out as a heavy, pleading sob, though there was no one left to beg.

* * *

><p>"What the hell was that?" Ron started, immediately, as soon as he was safely outside, heading down to meet Harry several metres away from the door, huddling against the corridor wall, looking overwhelmed.<p>

Honestly, Ron could have been talking about bloody well anything. His hands were still shaking. He could feel her skin on his as if it had been branded there, burned into his soul...

But Harry was shaking his head, and Ron waited for words of explanation, the only ones he was likely to get. Because he could not explain his own irrational behaviour with Hermione anymore than he could explain his dreams, or Harry's sudden outburst of rage...

"This is going to sound a bit mental," Harry started, "but hear me out."

"Mate," Ron sighed, "at this point, if it _didn't_ sound mental, _then _I'd be skeptical..."

Harry could hardly manage half a smile at Ron's joke before he pressed on.

"Something's occurred to me, but it's going to be really difficult to put into words," but Ron nodded, ready. "Just before we left to come here tonight, I wanted to do this, didn't I?"

Ron blinked.

"I need you to answer me," Harry said, urgently. "I know it doesn't make any sense, but please. Just indulge me."

"Yes, you did," Ron said, slowly. "You wanted to come here and find answers, same as me. We thought this place meant something. Your dreams, and those figures holding you down. This place seemed like a key, some clue to whatever is happening. Don't you still want-"

"I can't remember what I felt before she said that to us," Harry interrupted, "about the books from the library and her research..."

"What are you on about?" Ron asked, stepping even closer to Harry and lowering his voice another fraction.

"I'm saying... that I think... I think whenever Hermione gets close to an answer," and Harry paused to shake his head, as if saying these things was physically costing him, "I go into this... _rage_. And I can't recall the way I felt before it happened, that inspiration and need to do this, to follow it and see it to the end. It's like I have to sabotage it.

"Blimey..."

"Remember back at school when I wanted to burn Hermione's notes, the ones she had stuffed into her _Hogwarts, A History _book?"

This theory of Harry's was slowly clicking into place, and Ron's eyes widened as he nodded.

"Oh, damn it, you're right!"

"Yeah," Harry nodded.

"But _I_ don't feel anything like that," Ron reasoned. "I _saved _her work from you just now, didn't I. And I didn't feel a sodding thing..."

Well, he thought, aside from suddenly wanting to rip Hermione's clothes off and touch every inch of her bare skin...

Fuck.

He shook his head erratically.

"Then, look. _You _need to be the one..." Harry winced. "I'm sorry. I promised I'd do this for you-"

"No, mate," Ron cut in, "I'm fine. This isn't the same. This isn't her being desperate and trying to prove her innocence when I saw it with my own eyes. We're beyond that now. It might not be related to any of that at _all_. I don't know. But I can do this."

Harry sighed, still unconvinced, but Ron gave him half a smile, and Harry lightened considerably, pushing away from the wall.

"You know," Ron considered, "this is actually brilliant. If your theory is correct, and you react every time she's close to something true, then we just use it as a test. We hand you every bit of research she's done until you go mad and try to destroy it. Then we'll know what's really important."

"That's a good point," Harry chuckled, and he followed Ron back towards the room where Hermione awaited.

"Just promise me one thing," Ron said, straining to complete his thought before he lost his nerve, inches from the door now, voice lowered to a near-whisper.

"Anything," Harry said, automatically.

"Don't leave me alone with her again..."

Harry's eyes softened and he stared back at Ron with a mixture of pity and regret... and comprehension of what had happened while he'd been gone from the room moments ago, those precious seconds that had felt like a lifetime. But Ron knew he could count on Harry for this. For anything.

Harry nodded before he spoke...

"I won't."

* * *

><p><em>Stealing tracks that we would have followed out of here<br>You're stealing fractions from a whole that disappears_

_And at the end, a chapter goes  
>And now the finish is the start<em>


	19. You Take Form with Ink & Blood, Part 7

___Companion track:  
>The Joy Formidable, "I Don't Want to See You Like This" -<br>www . youtube watch?v=39afZwY6xI8&feature=fvwrel [remove spaces]___

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five - You Take Form With Ink and Blood, Part Seven<strong>

Hermione swiped a hand across her tear-streaked face as Ron re-entered the room, Harry following closely behind him. She caught Ron glance her over once before hiding his eyes from her again as they slowly approached her table. And she cleared her throat, lifting her nose slightly in a fleeting and unnecessary effort to return her pink skin to its normal color.

"So, we think... we've figured out something big," Harry began, taking in a deep breath. "My illogical reaction before-"

"-you think it means I'm onto something," Hermione cut in, because she'd figured it out already. Somehow, she always seemed to. "When you get angry over notes or books or-"

"How the ruddy hell did you figure that out so quickly?" Ron interrupted, eyes slightly widened as he stared at her. She blushed instantly, as if his eyes had colored her skin by simply passing over her.

"It just started to make sense," she continued, "the way you looked at me, Harry," and she returned her eyes to him for several reasons... one of which was surely due to the rapidly increasing beat of her heart...

"We can test it now," Harry said, "by my reaction. Show me everything you've been working on, and we'll know if something clicks... if something could be right, because if it is, I think I'll try to destroy it."

And as Harry finished speaking, Ron took up a neutral position, leaning against the wall to Hermione's right and surveying them. Far enough away to hurt, but close enough to hurt even more...

"I'll intervene," he began, hoarsely, "if something happens."

Hermione nodded without looking in his direction, feeling enough with his physical presence, his words washing over her as she shakily reached for her notes... an imprint of his skin around her wrist still so prominent it was as if he'd never removed his hand from her at all.

Everything became automatic. She'd hand Harry a page and he'd stare down at it, reading it over with no reaction, shaking his head and handing it back to her. They'd separated the first stack of notes, the ones that had triggered his explosion the first time. And Hermione had them positioned off to the side, waiting for the end. It was so methodical - hand Harry something from the right side of the table, take it back, stack it on the left.

Ron's breathing seemed to mark a rhythm, as strange as it was that she could hear him several paces away from her. But the silence around them seemed to build until they could have heard each other's heartbeats, if they'd listened closely.

At last, task completed, Harry's eyes moved to the notes from before, all that remained.

"What do they say?" he asked, voice low and scratchy from lack of use.

She hesitated only for a moment, as Ron pushed away from the wall to move into action if necessary. Harry was surely to snap as soon as she began speaking.

"It's a new kind of memory alteration," she swallowed, "a sort of dark magic. I found references to it only twice, in the same book, in the restricted section of the Hogwarts library. I'm not sure that those materials were even meant to be on the shelves at Hogwarts. And Harry-"

He blinked at her, breathing harshly through his nose, and she could feel the tension between them, like he was biting his tongue fiercely to keep from shouting.

"-the night before you left school for Christmas break, I thought I saw someone on the grounds, walking around the edge by the forest. And I know it's a guess, and probably a long shot at that, but I got the strangest feeling that they were after something, and that they were looking straight up Gryffindor tower at me-"

"Stop," Harry ground out from between his teeth, taking a step towards Hermione.

Ron moved up behind him and grasped both of Harry's biceps in his strong hands. And suddenly, without warning, Ron's eyes had shot up and met Hermione's, as both sets went wide, surprised at the effortless contact. Perhaps he hadn't really meant to-

"So, someone's going around perfecting this spell and they've gotten to us," Ron stated, awaiting Hermione's confirmation.

"It's just a guess," she breathed.

"A damn good one, by the looks of this," and Ron gestured down to Harry, who was shuddering and clenching his muscles.

And with a small sigh, Ron pulled Harry backwards and turned him away from Hermione.

"That's all we need for now, mate," Ron said, releasing Harry as he slowly started to calm down. "Stay here, it's fine. I'll be okay for a few minutes. Just... don't leave the room, yeah?"

Harry nodded and found Ron's eyes as Hermione watched from behind her table. And she felt her stomach drop, even as she wasn't entirely sure what their exchange had been about. She felt drained and raw and ill. She wanted nothing more at that moment than to find a bed, away from all of this, to lie down and shut her eyes... to pretend.

But Ron was approaching her again as she backed away, sighing out a shiver as she sat atop a bench at the back wall. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he continued towards her, alarmingly. And she held her breath, realising with mixed horror and elation that he was going to sit next to her. And he did, to her right, as far away as the short wooden bench would allow.

And before she could help herself, she spoke. Everything that was on her mind in one simple sentence.

"You remember when we were friends?" as she lightly chewed her bottom lip, staring off at something straight ahead of her.

"What? Of course I do," Ron said, quickly, scratching at his stubble as he joined her in silently staring at nothing. "What do you reckon I've been thinking about all this time, since we... stopped?"

"No," she nearly whispered. "I mean _really _think about it. Right now. Something specific. Not just a feeling. A memory. A place. One hour of one single day."

And when he didn't reply, she swallowed and glanced at him. A fleeting glance towards his profile.

"Can't you?" she pressed.

But surely he couldn't. Or perhaps he didn't want to. He remained drifting beside her, silence between them as he stared forward, forehead slightly creased.

"After all the bad," she continued, "think it's getting harder to remember the good? Well, I have another theory. I'm beginning to think... that it's not just because we can't fit those things from our past with how we've become... but because there are bits buried in our memories that aren't _real_. For me, maybe it's just gone. I lost months of my life. Surely it must have affected the rest of my mind. And for you... I don't know. Harry's been remembering in his dreams, things he never knew were there. So what was covering them up before?"

She heard him swallow beside her. And finally, she heard the gentle intake of breath that signaled that he was about to speak…

"I don't know if I want that to be true," he said, softly, "or if it scares me to think that it might be."

And then, nothing but the sounds of their breathing remained to fill the room, mixed with the shuffling of Harry's feet, metres away at the opposite wall. And so, releasing all self consciousness, she leaned her head against the wall behind her and closed her eyes. It didn't matter what he thought of her. She didn't have to try and be or say or do anything at all.

But as she focused on her imagination, drifting away from here and now, the overwhelming evidence of his eyes on her again sent her pulse soaring, and she opened her own eyes to glance back at him.

He was staring. At her chest.

"Ron, _what-_" she started, and his eyes flicked up to hers. No sign of embarrassment. He licked his lips and looked away, straight forward again, elbows on his knees.

She was now nearly shivering with something between offense and hope…

"You shouldn't hide it," he said, softly.

If she hadn't been confused before, she surely was now.

"Hide what?" she breathed, not sure how to feel. She was now so mixed up that she couldn't even _hope _to understand his motivations… or, perhaps, his _lack _of them, altogether. Her eyes were welling with tears again, and she wanted to scream and shout...

"Your scar," he rasped, finding a spot on the floor in front of him to stare at, intently. "You forget, I've seen it. But, you know... _I _don't forget. Anyway, you shouldn't hide it."

Her _scar_? She glanced down towards her chest, searching for any clue... Sure, she had a scar from the Ministry fifth year. Another from Malfoy Manor... But those were not visible now, securely hidden underneath her jumper. He couldn't possibly mean that she should wear more revealing clothes...

"Ron, I have no idea what you're on abou-"

But just as he was looking up at her, Harry gasped from across the room.

"Ron!" he hissed, motioning wildly. And Ron stood, crossing the room in a few long strides. "Shit, it was Paul! So he's the only bugger to walk down this way since we've been here?"

Hermione watched Ron's back tense up, shoulders tight as he froze. And she stood, slowly moving across the room to join them. Her heart was racing at the prospect of a meeting between the three of them… Of course it _was_ too much of a coincidence, wasn't it? That Paul would be _here_ today, right now, in this exact location?

"...the _fuck _is he doing here?" Ron growled, through a tightly clenched jaw.

"He was here before, when I caught up to him, right? And we knew we _might _find him today..." Harry whispered.

And the two of them moved to the tiny window to the left of the door that led back through to the corridor…

"He's gone," Harry said, "but I swear it was him. He walked right past this door."

"Well, come on," Ron said, straightening up to his full height, eyes darting back to Hermione. "Let's go after him."

"What, exactly, do you plan to do?" she asked, gently, aware of the fact that at any moment, Ron could blow up at her, accuse her of trying to defend Paul. But she wasn't. She wanted to go after him, too. If they thought it held any weight or could possibly help them now...

"I dunno," Ron panted. "Kidnap him, tie him down and beat him up until he tells us the fucking truth?"

The truth.

Was there a truth, anymore?

Hermione's lips trembled, her eyes creased with another steady onslaught of tears. And yet, she felt the corners of her lips twitch, as if Ron's threat made her heart soar. The idea of Ron beating up the man who had ruined his life… Well, then shouldn't it thrill her just the same to remember how Ron had cast her away from himself, after her own part in this tragedy?

"Why..." she cried.

Because it was too unbelievable. She was never supposed to _see_ Ron again. And now, they were going on like this for a chance that something else had torn them apart. Something that could be... _fixed_?

God, she couldn't hope. She just couldn't.

"I never got the chance to see him face to face afterwards, did I," Ron explained. "And if he knows something that we missed before-"

Harry hesitated behind Ron, looking between Ron and Hermione with concern.

"Interrogations? In the middle of the Ministry when we aren't even really supposed to be here?" Harry reasoned. "And Ron, it wasn't Paul in my dream. I'm almost sure of it."

"Then _someone _here knows something..."

"Exactly. And if they get onto the fact that we're onto _them_, they'll cover it even deeper."

Ron seemed hesitant, struggling with the realisation that Harry was right. That it wouldn't do for them to be caught here today, causing problems. And it was getting late. The morning rush was beginning, and they'd be in the midst of it if they waited any longer. They needed to go before they were found.

"Maybe that's enough for today," Harry continued, and Hermione couldn't help but agree.

"Yeah, alright," Ron sighed, running a hand through his hair.

Harry nodded in Hermione's direction before he reached for the door handle.

"Wait," Ron whispered, turning back to face Hermione, even as she was breaking down, anticipating their escape. "Where are you staying?"

Her heart warmed almost unpleasantly as she swallowed.

"It doesn't matter."

Her dormitory bed seemed as uninviting now, after his words, as it ever had. She had chosen to stay back at school, after what she had seen the night before the train. Safety within the confines of Hogwarts' wards, perhaps. A vantage point from which to watch for another onlooker... the threat of attack...

Ron opened his mouth as if to inquire further, a look of concern mixed with curiosity crossing over his features, but the echoing sounds of Aurors from down the corridors beyond widened Harry's eyes. And he grasped Ron's forearm in a warning vice grip.

"Gotta go," he whispered, pulling Ron from the room, Ron's eyes on Hermione for a moment too long before they were ripped away.

* * *

><p>Safely back at the Burrow that night, Ron found it hard to sleep, daydreaming of so many scenarios with unexplained origins. So there was something more to this even than what they'd dreamed. And he'd almost let it all go.<p>

The truth was lingering out of sight. And maybe it was for the best that it had taken him this long to try and find it. To realise that it was there to find at all.

It didn't stop him from believing she had betrayed him. It couldn't. Not while he'd been recovering so slowly from losing his faith in her. He was as wary as he'd ever been to stand before her. But he was acting on sheer impulse, moving without thinking for only the second time since she'd broken his heart. The first time, he'd kissed her, he'd pressed her against the wall of the Quidditch tent and-

And now, he was on some kind of new mission... because he had an overwhelming, unquellable urge to beat the shit out of _someone_. If only he had a sodding clue who he was supposed to want to beat the shit out of in the first place...

Someone who had hurt them. Who had stolen from them. Who had quite possibly changed them. And what was now hidden underneath? What awaited him, buried within his own mind, for a chance to break free? What moments, discarded or lost, could mean everything?

But it was curious now, the specific things he replayed, and the weeks and weeks he'd swept aside. And maybe he'd lied to her today, when she'd asked him if he could recall moments from before. Maybe he'd lied in not saying anything at all. Because he _could_ remember. So very well. And it was never _those _times that he reminisced, those months over the summer when he'd really been with her. Though he missed them, they were not what stood out when he'd wander to memories he should not. Rather, he'd recall one single kiss, shared in the midst of war. Eyes meeting over books from years ago. And longing for her the way he had since he'd finally known what it was to be in love. Those moments, and nothing more.

And more curious still, that not a single one of those moments were completely lost from _her _either, all fitting neatly within the memories _she _still carried as well, from before the end of the war, before she'd lost and been forced to forget what they'd had from May until August...

The most important moments were shared. Subconsciously, they were the only ones he still gave so much of a damn about, the only ones he couldn't shake the way that he was supposed to. The only ones he couldn't let go.

* * *

><p><em>But I can see us here<br>Without this fear_

_I want to find those books  
>Search your face, torment us<br>You're just a shower to someone dry  
>A shower to the wilted and the dried<em>

_Because we all leave courage's side  
>But I'll always be courage's child<em>

_I'll be your maps, I'll be your eyes  
>I'll give the ending a nudge<em>


	20. You Take Form with Ink & Blood, Part 8

_**A/N:** So it's been forever. I'm really sorry, guys. I've had a completely hectic and insane few months. This is all I could manage to write. I had wanted this chapter to be much longer, but I'm breaking it up yet again into two segments just so you don't have to wait another week (or longer) for the rest._**  
><strong>

_No song with this one. That will come with the second half of this part, when I post it. Not much happens here, as this is pretty much the final in between chapter, because **everything** is going to happen very soon...  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five - You Take Form With Ink and Blood, Part Eight-A<br>**

_**Tuesday, 22nd December, 1998...**_

They'd spent the last three days tearing up the Ministry library, Harry and Ron, on thin scraps of info from their chance meeting with Hermione. And though they'd come without having to hide, on the premise of research for N.E.W.T.S. as well as their careers post-Hogwarts, Ron had managed to sneak away from the library exactly four times to check that cold and silent room upstairs, down a back corridor behind the Auror department. And though he'd never explained himself, he sensed that Harry knew exactly what he was doing and why... that he was hoping, against all rational steps to ensure his own wellbeing, to run into Hermione again...

It was against all logic and contrary to his own pre-set laws and precautions, to go with a very real hope of seeing her, all on his own. He'd made Harry promise not to leave him alone with her, hadn't he. And yet, he seemed to be quietly, and madly, seeking her presence... without the protection of that promise.

And now he sat, across a polished library table from Harry, having recently returned from a "loo break" in which he took a far stretching detour upstairs...

"I think your parents are starting to suspect we've both gone mental," Harry said, suddenly, interrupting Ron's thoughts. "We've never been this keen to study anything before in our lives."

Ron half-smiled and brushed a palm across the top of the table, feeling the cold, silk-like surface against his skin.

"Anyway," Harry continued, closing yet another book and reaching for a new one from a large stack on his side of the table, "we've only got one more day to come here after today."

Ron's forehead creased with confusion as he cocked his head slightly to the side.

"What?"

Harry met Ron's puzzled eyes and lifted his eyebrows.

"Christmas Eve? Or have you forgotten altogether?" he teased.

"Oh. Right..." and Ron looked down as he suppressed a strong urge to chew at his lip from worry.

This routine had become such a constant for them, and though they hadn't made any real breakthroughs since their first visit to the Ministry, he was comforted in knowing that each day, they had somewhere to be and something to do. He wouldn't allow himself to fully admit that a part of that comfort was resting solidly in the fact that it had been _her _to lead them here in the first place...

Harry yawned, closing yet another book, and Ron was snapped out of his daze yet again.

"It's getting late. Reckon your mum's started dinner?"

Ron glanced at his watch and winced. It was nearly six, and he was sure his mum would be expecting them home. And so they left silently, closing another stack of books, another day of research without a breakthrough.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Wednesday, 23rd December, 1998...<strong>_

The librarians were beginning to look wary. Ron was tapping his toes anxiously beneath his table. Moments to go, and Harry would straighten his glasses, sigh one last time, and suggest they head towards the Burrow.

It would be three days before they'd have a chance to come back. And even then, Ron doubted very much that he could make a coherent excuse to return on Boxing Day...

"Well..." Harry sighed, but Ron froze.

"This is bollocks!"

Harry flinched and glanced up towards the front counters to determine if they had been heard shouting obscenities in the middle of the silent library, the night before Christmas Eve...

"What's wrong?" Harry asked, softly.

"I can't take this. Can you? We've gotten nowhere."

Ron slouched back in his chair, frustrated.

"I think we're doing our best, given the circumstances..." Harry trailed off, dancing right around it. Encircling the reason for their failure.

"Oh, to hell with it," Ron grumbled, sitting up straight again. "We're bloody useless without Hermione, and you know it."

Harry said nothing, fidgeted slightly... looking down. Confirmation, Ron thought. Because they both knew it and had simply avoided saying it. But silence didn't make it any less true.

"In bloody _minutes_, Harry, she told us more than we've been able to sort out for days..."

"Yeah..." Harry trailed off, nodding. "I know. I know that..."

"Harry, I know you're worried about me," Ron said quietly, leaning forward as Harry looked up to meet Ron's eyes across the table, "but it's not going to happen. I'm not going to forget what she did and what I saw. And it's not like I'm sitting here hoping to discover some way that it could have been faked or..."

Harry eyed Ron, sceptically. Ron sighed.

"The truth? Yeah. Goddamn it, I'd be so relieved I..." Ron cleared his throat and broke eye contact with Harry, to stare down at the stacks of open books between them. "But it's not going to happen, is it. I saw her. We both did. And after months of trying to work out how or why... It's not worth thinking about. I'm getting over her, really I am."

He met Harry's eyes again, and Harry nodded, really believing him.

"I know you are, " Harry said gravely. "Look, not that I'm completely opposed to meeting with Hermione again, but we don't have a sodding clue where she is, do we?"

"Send her an owl," Ron said immediately, as if he'd been considering this method for days now. And honestly, he had been...

"You think she'd reply?" Harry asked.

"Yeah, I do," Ron said sincerely. "She'll want to help us, even after..."

"Yeah."

And so, with a silently agreed upon plan, they packed up for the night, shuffled past a disgruntled librarian, and left the Ministry for the last time before Christmas...

* * *

><p><em><strong>Friday, 25th December, 1998...<strong>_

It was going on forty-eight hours since they'd owled Hermione. Harry was becoming more and more sceptical that she'd reply... that she'd _want _to. He'd asked her to keep away from Ron weeks ago, in not the kindest way at that. It wasn't any surprise to Harry that she'd keep up the request, even with Ron's handwriting scattered in a hurry across a strip of parchment, asking her to owl them back right away...

And though he believed Ron, trusted him to do what was best for himself, he also knew Ron's head and his heart. How forgiving he was, even with that damn temper. He'd shout and he'd scream and then he'd guilt himself sick.

A part of Harry had to hope that she _wouldn't _reply at all. But that they'd figure it out on their own. Exactly what they needed. Without her.

But then Ron paced past Harry, worry lines etched across his forehead, and Harry flip flopped on what he wanted, hoping beyond anything else that at least they could make some kind of breakthrough to give Ron a distraction...

The fire before them finally crackled and slowly died, and wordlessly, they exchanged a glance and went up to bed. Another day, Harry thought. Maybe she'd reply tomorrow. And if she didn't, at least there was the next day... another chance at the library, another stack of books taken down from the shelves at random. An illegal memory alteration spell possibly buried within brittle pages...

* * *

><p><em><strong>Saturday, 26th December, 1998...<strong>_

"I can't take it anymore, Harry," Ron mumbled from his bed, sleet pattering against his gloomy gray windows in the early morning. Harry rolled onto his back in his camp bed across the room, just barely awake.

"Hm?"

"We could go by her parents' house and check for her. Maybe. Then go back to Hogwarts. Reckon she would have gone back there if her family's still missing?" Ron said quickly, as if trying to get his thoughts out before Harry halted him and warned against them.

"Ron..."

He sat up in bed, ignoring Harry's single word of half-protest. What good did it do to worry himself crazy? _Yeah_, he was worried about her. He couldn't very well help it. Sure, she might not want to reply to their owl. But what if she was in danger? Could he risk it? Could he take the chance that she might need help while they were too caught up in personal business to go to her?

And then there was what he was _supposed _to care about. Figuring out why and how and _if _their memories had been altered... fucked with in some way.

"Please, Harry," he heard himself beg, eyes shining in the dull winter, across his room towards Harry where he was propped up on his elbow. Cautious.

"Yeah," Harry said roughly, after such a long time that Ron had begun to think he'd imagined his own words a moment before. "You know I'll do it."

And Harry smiled, just enough to drag them out of tension, Ron's lips curling at the sight of something so close to happiness.


	21. You Take Form with Ink & Blood, Part 9

_**A/N: **I'm so sorry it's been so long! I'll try my best to get the next one out faster!_

___Companion track:  
>The Joy Formidable, "This Ladder Is Ours" -<br>www . youtube watch?v=Y_t4s-HX3z0 [remove spaces]___

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five - You Take Form With Ink and Blood, Part Nine<strong>

A light sleet pattered sloshily against the windows of the Hogwarts library. Hermione sat hunched over a haphazard stack of aging parchment, a small, single lantern illuminating her table from the left. She'd been trying to distract herself from that damn letter she'd received for hours now, but it was awfully hard to accomplish when her method of distraction happened to be research that was quite probably related completely to the exact subject she was adamantly trying to forget to begin with.

It was tiring, just going over it, and she sighed gently, tucking and retucking tendrils of hair behind her ears, failing to keep them back for more than a sparse few seconds at a time. The weather was doing a number on her curls, and she couldn't be bothered with all of the necessary steps to sleek them down.

She sniffed, and her eyes fell on the rolled up note tossed carelessly to a nearby chair, as if _nearly _out of sight was good enough. She could see, as if through x-ray vision, his achingly familiar handwriting, inside the loosely bound scroll, without having to open it.

Of course she couldn't reply to him, as much as she longed to reopen communication now. She knew it was wrong, possibly damaging to imagine...

She closed her eyes for a brief moment, and with an unsteady breath, returned her focus to her work. Memory charms. Dark magic. Potions used as drugs to induce memory loss or confusion-

The large, main oak doors into the library creaked open far across the expanse of books to her left and she flinched, eyes towards whoever was entering.

And even in silhouette, she knew it was him.

Sucking in a breath, she did the only thing that she could on impulse: she leapt silently from her chair and dodged away from his eyeline as he strode slowly forward, launching herself into the depths of the library shelves, holding her breath.

But there were _two _gentle sets of footsteps, and she closed her eyes in the muddy blackness of the back rows of dusty tomes, to listen.

* * *

><p>His mind was a tornado.<p>

As if he knew she would be there, familiar and used-to-be-comforting to see her sitting by lantern light over a pile of dusty volumes, curls falling into her face.

They pushed through the Hogwarts library doors, Harry first, Ron's throat constricting at the silent warmth of the room... gloomy, wintry mid-afternoon through the tall, paned windows ahead. And as they walked, he saw it - books and papers and Hermione's twisted, beautiful handwriting marring the pages. Even from metres back he could see.

"God, she's here," Ron half-muttered, Harry glancing over his shoulder briefly before approaching the table directly.

"Look," Harry said softly, and he reached for a scrap of parchment curled against the seat of a chair beside a small scattering of Hermione's neat notes. But this one stood out, in Ron's own scratchy penmanship.

"She _did _get it!" Ron nearly whispered, ripping their letter from Harry's grasp and studying it, as if it contained some clue as to why she hadn't replied.

Harry sighed gently and avoided looking at Ron as he cleared his throat, glancing around at the mess of books and notes that littered Hermione's table.

"Maybe it's really for the best," Harry said, at last, cringing. Ron could not reply, because he was still warring with his own desire... and his own logic.

What did it really matter now? _Months _had passed.

And that was when he heard it - a tiny whimper, like a suppressed cry, deep down a long row of ancient texts. His head turned at the sound, peering into darkness.

"Ron, don't," Harry whispered, loosely grasping at Ron's jumper sleeve. But he made only a half-effort as Ron ignored Harry's attempted words of warning, easily pulling free of Harry's grasp and heading down the aisle into the dull black of unlit shelves.

Harry sighed again behind Ron, feet glued in place as Ron put more and more nervous distance between his backup and his destination.

And as he turned right, clearing the end of a seemingly endless row of books, he could feel her presence, though he could not see her amidst the darkness, blinking rapidly. He swallowed and heard her take in a sharp breath, shuffling away from him, he was certain. But he spoke more solidly than he'd thought himself capable of, and she froze, all noise ceasing from her direction.

"Hermione?"

She sniffed and he planted his feet permanently to the floor.

"What do you want?" a calculated reserve in her tone, holding back any signs of her recent tears. He wasn't stupid. He knew her better than she remembered.

"It was selfish," he replied. "We needed your help. If you didn't want us to come, why didn't you answer our letter?"

There was a long, stretched pause, and Ron felt all at once covered and completely naked in the darkness, unable to see her, wondering if she could see him... if her eyes had already adjusted to this spot...

"Harry _begged _me," she said, softly. "He begged me to protect you from- Was I supposed to just forget what I'd promised? I wanted to write back. I really did. I couldn't stop thinking of it, since I received your letter. But how could I let you back into my life like that? Not because I didn't want- Oh, God. Where's Harry?" she pleaded, and he could feel her falling back from him a bit, tucking her honesty back as far as she could.

"It isn't like that," he tried, swallowing as hard as he could, in an unsuccessful attempt to remove the gigantic lump that had formed in his throat. "We-" but he had to stop himself.

What the hell was he doing?

"Hermione?" and Ron jumped half a foot into the air at Harry's voice, suddenly so close behind him. Harry held a lantern, which revealed Hermione's face in yellow-orange shadow. Her eyes were bloodshot, face flushed and blotchy, and she tried to hide a bit from the light, blinking to excuse herself, on the grounds of it being too much of a shock to stand in this brightness after so much time in the dark.

"I know what I said," Harry continued, without waiting for her to reply, "but this is different. We actually need your help with something that has nothing to do with the pair of you... But you can tell us to piss off and-"

"I'll help you," she cut in, voice tiny, yet oddly firm and audible.

And so it began. Just like that.

She brushed past Ron; though not close enough to touch, far _too _close for him to _feel_. Her mind set on a problem to solve, she escorted Harry, leading the way back out from the depths of the library, to her small table, full of books and notes and wisdom. They spoke, and Ron hardly seemed to notice.

He'd, perhaps, given up something in this. In knowing he was going to be around her, to see her here as they worked together - like leaving the past to rot. Acceptance wasn't nearly as easy now that it was done, now that her back was towards him, her nose buried in a book.

He slowly moved, sliding a chair from a nearby table, slouching into it, a bit too far away to properly belong to the other two. But it was time to forget hushed voices, blinking too quickly, holding his breath...

It was time to learn the truth, good or bad, and face what came next.

* * *

><p>Hermione told them everything she knew - how she'd learned of experiments illegally performed centuries ago to try and unlock the key to memory tampering in a new, untraceable way. It was, of course, mostly theory, lists of Azkaban sentences... St. Mungo's patients.<p>

From there, she dove into more unfamiliar territory...

"I've been studying something called 'repressed memory', in which an individual subconsciously buries a memory that is too difficult to confront, or too traumatizing, and later begins to feel the effects of it in their daily life, to the point that they may seek help in recalling what they once repressed," she said, looking away for a moment and tucking a bit of hair behind her ear. "I admit I was more inclined to believe that I'd subconsciously wiped away a terrible memory of what I'd d-done than I was to believe I could have ever obliviated myself, knowing what the consequences would have been for the two of you..."

Harry studied her for a moment, taking in what she'd explained. It was definitely a much more plausible scenario, that she hadn't nonsensically cast a memory charm on herself, knowing that she'd only be left to deal more thoroughly, and all over again, with the consequences... but that her mind had simply been unable to deal with her grief, later on. Though it honestly didn't fit with Ron's memory of her with Paul... the way she'd been towards Ron afterwards... the things she'd said... So callous and uncaring...

It didn't matter. Either option felt unlikely, and Harry wasn't so concerned right now with dragging them all back down that road. Thankfully, he could tell that Hermione was not keen to either. Though he had to ask, as he found himself too curious now not to...

"Have you gone to someone to try and call up your memories?" She wouldn't meet his eyes and he felt sure he knew the answer.

"A Muggle doctor, yes," she said, softly. "I was put under hypnosis about a week ago."

"Hyp-what?" Ron asked, voice raspy from lack of speaking over such an extended period of time. And it was almost as if he'd faded away from them, Harry even jumping slightly at the unexpected sound of Ron's voice...

"It's a harmless procedure, really," she tried to brush off. "It's just a way to put you at ease. You relax as the doctor speaks to you, and he tries to take you back through your mind, in a way, to see if your memory goes in order, following a path that makes sense, or deviating off of what should be linear..." She nearly sighed, adjusted her back against her chair and averted eye contact with anyone. "But that's not what we're here for," she continued, clearing her throat. "I only mentioned it because I thought the _theory _might be worth adding to your own research, just to be completely thorough, you know."

And they _were _thorough. Exhausted, even, by the time it was late enough to call it a night.

"You're staying here?" Harry asked as they all stood from their littered table, stacking books and stretching.

"Yes," she shrugged. "I imagined I'd get more work done, and without my parents at home yet..."

"Still no word?" Ron asked, a hint of thinly veiled concern rising to the surface.

"No," she swallowed, and she said no more on the subject, neither Harry nor Ron speaking up to push her.

They walked silently upstairs to their dormitories, Hermione pausing between the boys' and girls' sides to look back at them.

"Goodnight," she said simply.

But she'd turned and climbed up the stairs away from them before either of them had had the chance to respond.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Thursday, December 31st, 1998...<strong>_

He'd had no new dreams, and distance from it had led him down a path of wondering if it was possible he'd somehow altered his _own _mind, the Muggle way Hermione had described, in some sort of self-destructive attempt to force himself to believe there could be a rational reason, an _excuse_, to see her again. It was bizarre, and nonsensical, but it was the only theory he'd managed to add to the short list of equally mysterious options they'd come up with so far.

But after another day of research, and a full stomach from dinner, Ron wanted nothing more than to retreat to the common room and settle into a settee with a gentle fire and a hot cup of chocolate.

And so, he did, followed closely by the other two, who had taken his lazy night request as their own excuse to do the same. He almost smiled because he knew they were more than happy to let him be the one to take the fall for a night of unproductive lounging.

He claimed his spot directly in front of the fire, watching Hermione out of the corner of his eye as she tucked her wool sock covered feet under herself as she made herself comfortable in the armchair to his left. Harry collapsed beside Ron, almost suspicious enough in his placement between Ron's eyes and Hermione's curling toes to be intentional.

Ron tossed him a nearly irritated look that Harry didn't catch, or chose not to... before Ron returned his attention to his hot chocolate.

The soft crackling of the fire and the way the weave of the rug felt beneath his bare feet made Ron oddly nostalgic, almost drunk in the glow and sounds and tastes...

Hermione reading a book in her favourite chair, half blocked by Harry as he cracked his knuckles and stretched his legs...

Time ticked past in comfortable silence, lulling him nearly to sleep.

"You've won a lot of chess in this room, Ron," Harry chuckled, a long while later, obviously feeling the same melancholy of being here, being alone... together.

And Ron found himself, despite what he _should _do, catching Hermione's smiling glance directly at him, swallowing past the lump in his throat as she licked her lips and returned to her reading.

"Hermione's read a lot of books in this room," Ron said, without thinking.

"Reckon you know about _how _many?" Harry asked her, tilting his head to the side as she rolled her eyes.

"A fair few more than the two of you," she half-grinned, still staring down at the open page before her.

"Oh!" Ron cut in, abruptly, shaking his watch. "It's nearly midnight."

"Goodbye, 1998," Harry yawned. And as he stretched and stood, Ron had to wonder... would he break his promise? Would he leave them alone here, together?

Did Ron _want _him to?

Yes. Of course he did. And that was what ultimately moved Ron's legs to bend, body to stand tall, chocolate finished and forgotten... to follow in Harry's footsteps as he turned away for the dormitory stairs.

But he could not resist one last glance, her eyelashes dancing patterns across her cheeks from his position high above her, her fringe glowing in firelight.

"Happy new year, Hermione."

* * *

><p>Let's sit and talk and slow things down<br>Just be our old selves again finally  
>Let's take this walk<br>Let's take a walk to somewhere pretty

Jump through from the past

This is where everybody turns out right in the end  
>Can you play that part?<p> 


	22. You Take Form with Ink & Blood, Part 10

_**A/N:** Hi. *waves* Guh. That is all._

_OH! And I totally have to credit my wonderful napchic for a specific sort of dialogue styling about halfway through. Ron's text. You'll see :)_

___Companion track:  
>The Joy Formidable, "Cholla" -<br>www . youtube watch?v=-xsFhE9PzT8 [remove spaces]___

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five - You Take Form With Ink and Blood, Part Ten<strong>

_**Sunday, January 3rd, 1999...**_

Icy cold seemed to penetrate through every crevice, every dimly lit fire, every bone. He was wrapped in a scarf now, jacket lopsidedly tucked over his slightly-too-large wool jumper. His mind could not help but wander to the desire he felt for another human's warmth… soft, hot skin… another heartbeat.

In a quiet, tucked away part of his mind, he felt the emptiness of forever being alone, of a life stretching out without another attempt at what he'd shared with only one other person before. It would have been slightly cynical, if it had been more than a softly drifting knowledge, not yet brought to the surface. A source, perhaps, for use as a joke, to lighten what was starting to weigh on him again, as the frosted glass panes of the library's tall windows froze solid with a thickly chilled wind.

They moved through the morning in near silence, caught up in their own thoughts and wonderings. Tomorrow, school would resume, and their time to research would be much more limited. Students would return in the morning, giving them less than twenty-four hours to solve something that was becoming more and more obviously impossible to solve without some outside source of information or assistance.

After lunch, he climbed the stairs to the boy's dormitory to add another scarf to his layered clothing, shivering as he ascended against increasingly lower temperatures, putting distance and height between his back and the common room fireplace. Harry entered the room behind him, stretching and shivering, all at once.

"You reckon it's worth going back through the restricted section tonight?" Harry asked, as Ron dug deep within his trunk at the foot of his bed for a clean second scarf.

"I've practically memorized the books, in order, on every shelf back there," Ron said as his fingers wrapped around what was hopefully a scarf, but turned out to be a very stretched out wool sock. He wrinkled his nose and tossed it back, grinning as Harry gave him a mock-disapproving look and sat on the edge of Ron's bed.

"Here," and Harry untwisted a scarf from around his own neck. "I'm wearing three layers underneath my cloak. I might suffocate," and he tossed the scarf to Ron as Ron joined Harry on the side of the bed, causing the mattress to bounce a bit with his casually thrown around weight, slouching back and yawning as he began wrapping scarf number two around his neck.

"Cheers," he said, sighing as they faced the dormitory door, falling silent.

"Are you alright?" Harry asked softly, after a moment. Ron was briefly puzzled by the question, glancing left, towards Harry's profile. "I mean, you know," Harry added.

And somehow, that cleared it up.

Ron swallowed and stared forward again.

"Sure, I am," he finally said, because knowing that he _had_ to be sort of made it so. It had been working, and would go on working for as long as he wanted it to. From the corner of his eye, he could tell that Harry was nodding, in that sort of dismissive (yet not quite believable) way that he often did. Of course it took more than Ron's short sentence to prove it to his best mate. That he was fine.

He chuckled then, remembering his thoughts from earlier. The almost-blizzard outside now seemed to chill his whole nervous system, through his blood and bones.

"Anyway, at least I think I've figured out what I should be after Hogwarts," he teased.

"What's that?" Harry asked, turning to face Ron now, curious, and led by Ron's playful tone of voice.

"One of those monk blokes we read about in Muggle Studies," Ron grinned, and Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Aside from my alarm at your new choice of career, I have to say I can't believe you remember a damn thing from Muggle Studies," Harry laughed.

"Oy, something stuck every once in a while," Ron replied, shoving Harry with his shoulder.

And though the joke had not yet reached the core of truth that was buried in the centre, the idea of forever living his life without the hope or desire for love again…

Well, he didn't need to be so morbid, did he. Not today. There were far too many library books to read to spare the time.

* * *

><p>She could feel her heart beating in her ears.<p>

He'd sat himself on Harry's usual side of the settee tonight, which positioned his body close enough to hers for her to feel the comfort that she used to be so magnetized to, radiating off of him. The inches that separated the toes of her right foot from his left knee were a bit dangerous, and she dragged her eyes away from the minuscule space in between them to stare a hole through the centre of the book she appeared to be engrossed in but had actually not even been able to concentrate on for long enough to be sure that it wasn't currently upside down. She could feel Harry throwing consistent glances in their direction, no doubt concerned with Ron's casual approach to the evening... sitting on what had wordlessly become the 'wrong' side of the sofa.

But then it was too easy to remind herself that it meant nothing. That she was nothing right now to him, floating in the void between used-to-be-friends and maybe-someday-acquaintances. They could be familiar again, in some ways. She was growing used to knowing that. But knowing she'd once had so much more... it honestly made her feel less and less like she would ever be completely capable of a life with him in it, subtracting everything she'd built up to and grown used to hoping for.

"It's g'damn cold," Ron slurred, slouching further down the back of the sofa, neck and chin retreating inside two scarves, one of which Hermione recognized as Harry's from earlier that same day.

She felt a wave of amusement mixed with playful chastisement pass through her at his horrid language. She nearly opened her mouth to reprimand him before giving up and shaking her head slightly, eyes darting back down towards her book. But that was when she saw it, out of focus, beyond the bottom edge of her book's binding.

If she breathed too heavily, her toes could easily press against the left side of his knee. After his readjustment, he was actually that close.

And he didn't seem to notice at all.

He ruffled his hair. And after a long moment, holding her breath, he sat up straight again, reaching for a book on the low table in front of him, at random.

He glanced at her. And everything shattered back down to dust.

The reminder that no matter how much she wished it, he would never look at her the way she wanted, ever again, pressed down against her chest, and she tried so desperately not to cry. Not here, with both of them just there beside her. With the only link now left to keep her with them simply hanging by a thread as it was. Surely, if they could read her mind, they would deem it all too risky and sever their unity, even for the sake of a mystery to solve.

But then, there it was. What she'd been pushing back further and further into her mind. What had come, all of a sudden, to no longer have any room left in which to push further.

The choice that now stood before her did not seem to have two equal options any longer.

"What d'you think?" Ron asked no one in particular. "I just know there's a load of made up shite floating around in my mind, so where the hell did it come from?"

"It's got to be Hermione's alteration theory. Someone doesn't want us to know something, and they've gone to great lengths to ensure that we don't figure it out," Harry replied.

"Right. So now we've just got to figure out who's buggering with our minds and-"

"And that leaves us exactly where we were yesterday, and the day before that," Harry sighed.

"We've got to go back to the Ministry, Harry..."

But their voices faded as she tried not to be sick. She closed her book with barely a sound and untwisted her legs from underneath her body.

"Well, we're not going to solve it tonight," she said, softly, drawing Ron and Harry's attention as she averted eye contact and packed up her bag. "I can ask Professor McGonagall about granting you both permission to leave school grounds if you want to poke around the Auror offices this week. I go back on Wednesday anyway for a review on my parents' case."

"Alright," Harry nodded, eyes on her as she allowed bits of tightly curled hair to fall forward, covering the sides of her face as she turned to head upstairs to bed.

"Goodnight," she called back, without a pause for their reply, surely leaving them confused by her abrupt departure...

And it was there, halfway up the lonely steps towards the girls' dormitory, that she lost what little hold she had left on her emotions. Tears streaked down her face, obscuring her vision for the last few stairs. And as she passed through the door into the empty seventh year dorm room, she whispered a wandless silencing charm, years of getting used to performing it aiding her now when she might not have had the strength. She dropped her bag, with a thump, to the floor. And she slipped down the inside of the door to pool at the foot of it, caved in and giving up.

She had somehow made up her mind, as much as every part of her screamed for the opposite.

She had to stop. She could no longer be with them. Not now. With Ron still tightly clutching onto every piece of her broken heart. Hope stirring within her at every innocent glance.

She could no longer be near him. She could not risk his recovery, or her own sanity. And she would tell them tomorrow. She'd make an excuse - school work getting to her. Exams and her parents' case taking up all the time she had. Something.

Something they might believe.

Something Ron wouldn't see through...

What could have been hours later, it took every ounce of strength she had left to pull herself off of the floor, wash up and dress for bed, and drag the curtains round her four-poster.

Ice racketed against the windows by each empty bed around her. And the hollow feeling that had taken up a rather permanent residence inside of her chest was echoed by the chill of the room... the inability of any amount of body heat, sheets and blankets to warm her.

* * *

><p>Ron wasn't completely oblivious this time. He knew something had been done or said accidentally to hurt her. To send her rushing up to bed.<p>

But honestly, he could not piece together what it might have been. And there was some small amount of sadness in knowing that it was neither smart of him nor his place now to confront her about it. And so, it was doomed to be added to the list of unsolved mistakes he might have made. And he sighed halfway as he followed Harry through the doorway into their dormitory.

Harry plopped on the side of his bed with a rolled up evening Prophet, and Ron stretched his neck side to side before digging into his trunk for clean pyjamas. Running a hand over his jaw, he raised an eyebrow at himself.

"Getting scruffy," Harry said with a grin, eyes still cast down as he unrolled his Prophet, flopping over to stretch out along his bed, above the covers.

"Thanks, mate," Ron replied, sarcastically, as he crossed his arms and grasped the hem of his shirt, to remove it, yanking it up over his head, sending stray clumps of hair to point up and out at ridiculous angles. He dropped the shirt to the floor, as he usually saw fit to do with clothes that needed a wash, and he turned to head down the hall towards the loo.

But halfway through brushing his teeth, it came to his attention that he'd left his razor resting patiently atop his bedside table. He flexed his toes against the cool stone tile of the lavatory floor, finished with his teeth, and turned lazily to shuffle back down the hall and retrieve his razor.

But one glance towards Harry stopped him in his tracks, a metre away from his bed.

"What is it?" he asked, a bit nervously.

Harry was sitting up in bed again, evening Prophet opened across his lap, eyebrows stuck halfway up underneath his fringe, a look of disgust as his eyes darted across the page.

"Ron…" he said, glancing up to meet Ron's eyes as he approached. "Take a look at this," and he tossed the paper to Ron, who caught it fluidly, creasing it as he closed his hand around it. He took a seat on the edge of Harry's bed, clad only in his pyjama bottoms, still shirtless, still scruffy...

The story began with a moving photo, like most cover stories did. A girl, maybe twenty, twenty-one. Her hair was dark and sleek, yet very straight, rolling off her shoulders, longer strands straying down further than the rest… bathing her cheeks in dark shadow. Her eyes were large and light, eyebrows no more than thin, dark lines above heavy lids. She appeared slightly too narrow for her frame, bone outlines visible along her cheeks and jaw as she turned her face slightly to the right. Her skin was almost tanned, as if she'd been on holiday for an extended period of time but hadn't taken great care of herself, at the same time.

"Am I supposed to know her?" Ron asked, slowly.

"No," Harry said, "but look at what she did! She was caught just this afternoon-"

But Ron squinted as a spark of familiarity flared, and the rest of Harry's words were lost. The picture loop restarted, and the girl turned to her right again… There, Ron could see it, from the hollow of her neck, downward-

Tearing his eyes away, Ron scanned the article, suddenly feeling frantic…

_Earlier this afternoon, Jen Moran (pictured) was arrested for illegal use of polyjuice potion, aiding in several crimes against Muggles, Muggleborns, and their families. Several extremely valuable artifacts have also been stolen from the Ministry of Magic over the past few months by Jen and her step brother, Fitz Moran, accomplice to all eleven crimes uncovered today._

_Jen and Fitz Moran are currently imprisoned at Azkaban while awaiting their trial on Friday. Further details are being gathered against both Jen and Fitz in an effort to build a more solid case, though Senior Auror Lester Bailey is positive that fittingly harsh verdicts for both will be forthcoming, given the evidence gathered today._

Ron stopped reading, dizzy... and he returned his full attention to the picture at the top of the page.

His throat constricted as he allowed his eyes to fall along that mark - a thin, yet prominent… _scar_.

From her neck, down her chest, disappearing beneath her low-cut blouse. And the jagged pattern it cut up towards her collarbone…

It was like looking into the eyes of an old friend, viewing that scar again now.

So specific. So exact…

"Harry..." Ron breathed, unconsciously clutching the Prophet tightly in his fist, eyes glued to the picture as the loop restarted, once more.

"What?" Harry asked, eyebrows furrowed as he followed Ron's line of vision to the picture of the girl. "What is it?" And as Ron's hand began to shake against the paper, Harry sat up straighter, drawing in closer. "What is it, mate?"

"I know her..." Ron whispered, eyes wide and lips parted as visions flooded him, a series of memories that now made a different kind of sense.

"Really?" Harry asked, shocked as he grabbed ahold of the paper from the other side, leaning in closer to get a better look at Jen.

But memories were braiding together now... and Ron's eyes burned as his stomach flipped sickeningly.

"No..." he said slowly, hardly realizing he was speaking. "No. Oh my God..."

His heart was pounding against his ribs, and his ears rang as he trembled, abruptly frozen and chilled to the bone.

And his eyes darted to the next passage of the article, somehow almost knowing exactly what he'd find there...

_Our Auror department is calling this the most well developed and pre-planned attack of identity theft that has ever been recorded. To date, the Auror department has uncovered eight different cases of forced impersonation, carried out by the Morans-_

"What is it?!" Harry asked, frantically, clasping Ron's shoulder and shaking him gently.

"It wasn't Hermione!" Ron cried, struck hard with the truth. "It was _her_, Harry! Oh my God!"

He knew. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt. It _was_. Just as he was Ron and Harry was Harry.

"What are you saying?!" Harry begged, squeezing Ron's shoulder tightly as Ron turned to stare into Harry's eyes, his own eyes wide and glassy.

"It was _this girl_, Harry! All of it was HER... She did EVERYTHING!"

Ron's hand was now shaking so badly that he could no longer hold onto the paper. Crumpling it, he let it fall to the floor as he stood on unsteady legs, overwhelmed as his burning eyes finally released a wave of tears amidst realisation and absolute horror. He let out a sob as Harry stood quickly in front of him, mouth hanging open.

"Shit!" Ron cried, covering his mouth and nose with both hands, shutting his eyes for long enough to drain them.

"_SHE_... was _HERMIONE_?!" Harry hissed, overwhelmed.

"YES!" Ron half-sobbed. "All of it... all summer, I saw that bloody scar..."

"Are you saying..." Harry continued, speaking at double speed, "that for nearly four months, while you were with Hermione - while _we _were with her - it was _THIS GIRL _all along?!"

Ron stared into Harry's eyes for a long moment, whites and pupils glowing in the light from the bedside lanterns scattered around their dormitory.

"Yes," Ron finally answered, voice oddly steady as he let his trembling arms fall to his sides. "I know it was her."

It wasn't just a solitary memory of this scar. It was days and weeks and fucking months. It was from that first day, that first morning after the final battle... waking up with Hermione who had been... who had been someone else entirely!

Their code word... they'd come up with it together, so they'd never lose each other. And whose idea had that been? It had been Hermione's! No. It had been _Jen's_! To keep him from finding out that the real Hermione was out there somewhere?! So no matter what, if she came for him, he'd think the _real _Hermione was actually an impostor. It was almost too perfect, too brilliant. It fit together too fucking well.

"You're positive?" Harry asked, though Ron knew that Harry had only voiced the question aloud for something else to say, as the shock and horror of this new discovery sunk in fully.

"Yes," Ron repeated. "SHIT! It makes so much sense. I can't believe… I… Oh, FUCK! She would leave the room in a hurry, and for no reason, make up some excuse that I fucking believed! She was taking _polyjuice_, Harry! She was starting to turn back into herself and she had to-"

But Ron's breath caught in his throat and he couldn't go on.

"Holy shit."

Harry swayed slightly, trembling a bit himself, as he stared up at Ron, unrelenting.

"All that time, and I never questioned..." Ron trailed off, raspy… finding it increasingly difficult to catch his breath, as flashbacks of Hermione continued to morph into something completely new and different and not at all something he was pleased to see.

And suddenly, beyond his control, he realized that he was _actually_ going to be sick. Balling his hands into tight fists, he tore out of the room towards the loo, the sounds of Harry's pounding footsteps behind him fading past the ringing in his ears as it grew, impossibly loud. And as he rounded the corner into the first stall, he collapsed to the tile and clutched his stomach, vomiting as he clenched his eyes shut.

It was as if the whole world around him had caved in, and the pieces that remained were there purely to mock him.

Harry was behind him, his hand warm against Ron's back.

And there they sat, as Ron heaved breath after painful breath, eyes glued shut. He concentrated on the feeling of Harry's hand, absentmindedly running up his spine and back.

Slowly, he was able to calm down enough to lift his head, and he found that now… now that he'd discovered the missing puzzle piece, the one he hadn't known was lost, everything in his universe was pointing in one solid direction.

"Harry," he spoke hoarsely, towards the wall in front of him, "we have to tell her. I have to see her _now_."

"I know," came Harry's small voice from behind him. And Ron couldn't help himself. A tiny, almost-smile cracked at the corners of his lips.

"Useless brushing my teeth earlier…" he mumbled as he balanced and stood, brushing past Harry who still appeared completely shell shocked.

And so, he set to work, too much toothpaste, brushing furiously… "How d'we do it?" he managed around his toothbrush.

"We can't get into the girls' dormitory," Harry reasoned, eyes darting. "The stairs-"

"What if we fly?" Ron suggested, pausing only long enough to spit… still shaking on his feet. "We know she's here in Gryffindor tower, so we just circle until we find her room..."

And he took a massive swig of water, swishing it furiously around inside his mouth as he avoided eye contact with his own reflection, feeling completely drained, but somehow energized by one remaining purpose, by the final thing he had to do… before he could rest.

"What, we peek in through all the windows?" Harry asked, sceptically. "What if she's pulled the curtains across? How will we know which one-"

"I'll know," Ron said, matter of factly.

Harry blinked at him.

"Don't ask me how. I know it doesn't make any sense, and I have no justification. But I just think I'll know."

Unspoken trust flowed between them, and it was clear that Harry did not need to ask Ron to explain, no matter how absurd. It just was.

"I'm willing to bet the windows are charmed like the stairs so blokes can't get through," Harry added, finally.

"But it can't hurt to try," Ron said, shocked by his own poise. But he promptly wiped away the image of his clearheaded demeanor by practically pouncing on the door. "Come on!"

"Go the window by my bed!" Harry called as he ran after Ron. "Accio our brooms up from the Quidditch pitch?"

"Yeah!" Ron called back as they skidded through the doorway into their dormitory. "Yeah, that's brilliant!"

Before Harry could quite catch up, Ron had wrenched open the window, clattering the glass panes as the latch collided with the interior wall. A gust of frozen, wintry air attacked him, and Harry slid to a stop at Ron's left, leaning a few inches out the now-open window, pointing his wand down across the grounds.

"Accio broom!" he shouted, and Ron aimed his own wand over Harry's right shoulder to do the same.

As they awaited the arrival of their brooms, impatience dominated, and Ron could do nothing but play and replay his own fabricated images of seeing Hermione now, of telling her what he'd found and apologising until he could no longer speak, until he'd lost his voice from crying to her, begging her forgiveness...

The wait was agonizing, and he actually contemplated binding himself to his bed to restrict his own impulses to simply jump out the window and scale the tower in search of her... Completely mental and utterly irrational thoughts were warring for dominance as he waited…

But at last, two back to back whooshes sounded out, signifying the imminent arrival of their brooms. And they could just make them out, soaring through the night sky, finally stopping just short of the window, allowing Harry to catch his broom in a steady fist without missing a beat. Ron clutched at his own broom just as fluidly, and they pulled them through the opening, wood clanking noisily against iron.

"Go around to the left first," Ron said hoarsely, over his shoulder. "Follow me."

Harry nodded, and Ron pushed off the floor, ducking to miss hitting his head on the window frame. They were soon climbing higher and higher as they circled Gryffindor tower, frozen to the bone as their speed and their height whipped up a cocktail of icy air and bits of sleet, biting at their exposed skin. Of course a more rational approach would have been for Ron to at least invest in a jumper before dashing out the window, perhaps a pair of socks and trainers… But he really could not be bothered to give a damn.

"We have to be sure!" Harry shouted at Ron's back. "I believe you, but we trusted what we saw before, too!"

"I know!" Ron shouted in return, through a gust, squinting in the frozen wind and turning his head left, to scan the tower windows as they passed.

Moments ago, inside, he'd been convinced he could find her. But now, faced with window after dark window, it was feeling a bit less likely. Holding his wand high, elbow bent and covering part of his face from the weather, he aimed for the next window they approached, soaring a bit too fast-

With a swish, he sent a blast of heat to melt the ice that had frosted the glass, leaning left to curve inward, closer to the tower wall. But Harry beat him there, clasping onto rock to stop himself, hovering in the air and staring in.

"Nothing!" Harry called over his shoulder, as Ron wobbled to a stop behind him.

"Try the next one!"

And so they did, round and up the tower, catching pneumonia...

And finally, it happened. The feeling he'd been waiting for. Some kind of distant warmth, the lingering echo of a lantern recently put out.

Harry soared up behind him, close enough for Ron to feel Harry's hot breath against his neck.

He widened his eyes, straight into the darkness within.

He could barely cry his relief when he spotted her trunk... her cloak draped over it...

And it occurred to him, for the first time, as he aimed his wand at the latch, trembling too violently to get a good aim.

"Alohamora."

What if she didn't want him now?

What if it was too late to start?

What if she'd gotten over him?

But he couldn't think on it, window bursting open, clanging against the inside wall, almost breaking. He heard a gasp, mid-cry, and her curtains ripped back, revealing her wild eyes, exploding curls... her wand aimed across the room, directly at him.

"Hherrmmione," he breathed through a heavy shiver, clutching her window frame for support as he pulled himself through, Harry right behind him.

"What is it?!" she shouted, frantically, still sitting up perfectly straight in bed, feet tucked underneath her. "What's happened?!"

And he could see, as he dropped his broom to the floor with a careless clatter, how bloodshot and sore her eyes looked, cheeks still stained with sheets of fresh tears.

"I-I knoww it ddoesn't make ssense," he shuddered, squinting against his sobs as she stared up at him, wide-eyed, "bbut you've gggot to sshow us yyour sscar."

"Wh..." and she paused for a breath, "what do you mean? Ron, I... I don't underst-"

"Onn yyour cchest, rrright here," and he traced an unsteady finger down his own body, from collarbone to halfway down his ribs.

She visibly swallowed, eyes still perfectly wide and round.

He realised the crudeness of his request, and he felt his cheeks burn.

"She could have concealed it," Harry reasoned, voice low, eyes darting to meet Ron's. "We've got to make sure."

"Yeah, yeah," Ron panted. "You might have to help me with the charms, blimey." And they both glanced down at Ron's furiously trembling hands. He clutched his wand hand's wrist with his left hand, trying to hold it steady as his whole body shuddered in the rapidly increasing wind at his back, through the still-open window.

"How many charms do we know that can conceal something like this?" Harry asked, chewing his bottom lip in thought.

"We learned the list in Defense-"

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS GOING ON?!" Hermione suddenly shrieked, cutting right through Ron's thoughts and turning his full attention back towards her.

He couldn't help it. He grinned so widely his cheeks hurt.

He almost made so many mistakes, the thought of sodding all their doubts causing his heart triple its beat. But Harry cleared his throat and Ron's eyes burned with tears again. It was all too much.

"Wwe have tto see yyour scar, to know it wwasn't you," Ron stuttered through the ice in his lungs.

"Wasn't- _wasn't me_?!" she whispered, jaw dropping.

He looked at her, _really_. With a new lens, one that displayed an even more vibrant representation of what used to be.

"We hhave a ddamn good rreason to believe wwe ccocked up," he sighed out, already apologizing.

He watched her eyes fill halfway with tears as her lips parted to speak.

"I don't have a scar there," she barely said, nearly inaudible if he hadn't been reading her lips.

"Prove it."

Her neck moved beautifully as she swallowed, bathed in his shadow. And he shivered again in yet another gust of blizzard-wind.

"I kknow iit's awkkward. I'm ssorry, I... Yyou ccan sh-show Harry if-"

"It's nothing you haven't seen before," she interrupted, in such a tiny voice. And he swallowed, feeling the sickness rise again, knowing he'd _seen_ her... but had never truly seen _her_. "Is it?" she added, meeting his eyes so shortly, so shyly.

And he managed to sort through the dizzying events that had led them here... enough to know that all she needed was his confirmation, whether it was tied to a million complications or simple linear truths, from their recent past.

Skin. He'd seen a skin, hint of bones, and nights of sweat. He'd seen a body that had been fashioned to her specifics, prepared to end him. He'd seen nights of moonlight, lantern glow... _her_ eyes as he'd held someone else. He'd felt the silk of her curves around the heart and soul and mind of an evil maniac.

And yet, frozen stiff, metres in front of her, moments from final truth, he shook his head.

"Nno," he whispered. "It isn't."

Breathing in heaves of nervousness, she placed her wand on her bedside table, pushed up on her mattress to sit on her knees, and reached for the bottom hem of her thin cotton shirt.

And after an agonizing moment, she closed her eyes, ripping her shirt off over her head in one fluid motion, trembling fiercely as Harry swore under his breath and turned his back on them.

Ron froze, her naked torso lit by the natural moonlight coming in through the window behind him. Everything now seemed to pulse with life, like all of his past with the person he'd thought was her had faded into tones of black and white and gray. And despite everything taking over his body, suddenly seeing her like this after so long, catching her terrified eyes as she opened them and she tried not to meet his gaze, combined with her obvious flush, even in the darkness... He was reminded, then, of his sole purpose... one more moment, and he'd know the truth.

Though he could feel it already. Yet he'd told her otherwise, in a way too complex to explain just now. But he knew. He'd never seen her like this before. This was the first time. He was sure of it.

"Harry," he whisper-cried. "I can't do it. Ppplease."

And Harry glanced left, at Ron's profile, before turning round, eyes raised slightly above Hermione's head.

Aiming his wand at her chest, he paused. Ron nodded.

"Revelio."

A gentle, unmistakable glow of undone charms flashed across her skin. And there was nothing.

Ron was too impatient, knowing the truth – merely proving it. And he urged Harry onward with a nudge of his elbow.

"Revelio," Harry tried again, more firmly, and for good measure. "Finite incantatem. Aparecium."

Nothing. Her eyes darted, lips parted, hopeful.

And in that moment, Ron must have looked as overwhelmed as he felt, because she was suddenly so obviously concerned, completely forgetting her nudity in his presence for the sake of his wellbeing.

"Ron, are you alright?"

He loved her so fucking much.

And there was nothing he could say to answer her as he cried, dropping his wand to the floor and crossing over towards her in several long strides. And before he could think of what he was doing, he was climbing up onto her bed, startling her as he jostled her mattress... gathering her against his bare chest, throwing his arms securely around her, on his knees in front of her.

"I'm sso sorry!" he sobbed into her neck, her hair bunching to cover his face as she gave up on shocked-and-confused and clung back to him, pressing her own naked chest completely against his frozen skin.

His hands flattened to her back, holding her as tightly as he could without crushing her.

His body was attacking him from the inside, sobs cutting through his lungs and throat. And he could feel her own tears trickling down his neck and collarbone. Muscles tightened as he continuously re-gathered her body against his, attempting to hold her impossibly close.

She was so bloody warm, thawing every bit of him, through skin and veins. Though, as the scent and feel of her calmed him enough to breathe, he became rather acutely aware of his disregard for her nudity, and how she might feel, half naked in front of him for the first time...

"Oh, shit, sorry," he choked, aching in his reluctance to let her go. And what if he released her and she didn't come back to him?

But as his arms slackened their grip, she hiccupped and clawed at his back, cheek pressed so firmly to his shoulder that it felt nearly permanent.

"Why?!" she sobbed against him, muffled cries into his skin. "Why are you sorry? What's changed?"

And he realised, she didn't understand at all. He hadn't explained. And yet, she was clinging to him as if it might still be the last time. Taking what he gave her without question.

"Harry's got it," Ron said quickly, still holding her as he lifted his head towards the window, which Harry had now shut.

And Harry removed the evening Prophet from his back pocket, stepping up to hand it to Ron, who had to disentangle a hand from the hair at the base of Hermione's neck in order to take it.

"Look," he sniffed, softly, tilting his head down towards her face, which was still smooshed against his left shoulder and collarbone. He dropped his other hand from her back to brush hair away from her face, gazing down at her through the darkness.

She opened her eyes, so very slowly. And as she locked them onto his, he actually felt her heart, against his chest, beat faster.

The feeling of her warmth moving away from his, as she sat up straighter, reminded him of her current state once more, and he cocked an eyebrow up at Harry.

"Oy, turn around," but Harry was already halfway there.

Hermione's face was glowing with tears, framed by wild hair, and Ron felt his throat constrict, butterflies bubbling in the aftermath of such new proximity.

New. As it was and as it felt. The most incredible confirmation, to know that this was new. That all of it was as it started, back in May, with one kiss and shy glances and falling asleep together, fully clothed.

And then nothing.

Months and months of lies and hurt. Longing desperately for something he didn't think he could have, ever again.

To find out he'd never had it, all along.

Hermione's hand grasped onto his wrist to turn the paper in her direction, and he gasped as nerves sizzled delightfully.

Exhausted by emotion, she almost smiled up at him at his reaction, before her eyes fell solidly to the picture and paragraphs at the top of the front page. The article that was saving them.

As her eyes danced back and forth, reading the details, Ron watched her expression change from curiosity to understanding. She squinted against another wave of tears and looked up, directly into his eyes, her face mere inches from his.

"It was her? All along?" she whispered.

His jaw twitched as his vision blurred. His head was surely going to throb later, after so much crying. He could feel it already creeping up, his body's warning signs that it had had enough.

"I'm so... so sorry, Hermione."

Her mouth dropped open, reality sinking in.

"That... that bitch!" she hissed.

And the tense air between them was lightened instantly. Ron pressed his lips together, feeling a rumble of imminent laughter escalate. Towards his left, Harry's back shook with his own mirth.

And suddenly, nothing and everything was maddeningly delightful. Sod modesty. He threw his arms round her shoulders, pulling her in and clutching her against his own body once more, as laughter escaped with a burst from all three of them, filling the room.

He kissed her ear with a grin, feeling her tense up at his unexpected affection. Without pause to over analyze, he kissed the side of her head through her hair as well, running his fingers up her spine to tangle in her curls.

But as they calmed yet again, his heart pounded out a final fearful rhythm. He had to be sure. She had to understand how he craved her forgiveness.

He pulled back just far enough to press his forehead to hers, noting out of the corner of his eye that Harry was making a quiet escape, leaving them alone, together.

"Can you forgive me?" he breathed against her lips.

"I've got nothing to forgive," she sighed.

"The way I treated you... the way we left you alone. Fucking hell! I believed you could be so cruel! How could I?"

"Because you saw it, face to face," she reasoned. "I nearly believed it myself, when I couldn't find another explanation."

He was overwhelmed once again by regret, even with her words of comfort.

"You had no reason to doubt she was me."

"She hurt me so much, in a way you never would. I knew it. But I still believed it. I felt I had no choice. Nothing else made sense," he whispered back. Did he want her to see it his way, to chastise his behaviour and scream at him, what he felt he might deserve? But the one he wanted for his sweet revenge... she was lying in Azkaban.

"We'll file a report," Hermione whispered back. "We'll go to the trial and tell them what happened."

He nodded shortly, and he knew she could still see his anguish for the past...

"And you won't blame yourself. Not if we can be together now," she whispered through a tiny cry.

"You'd still want me?" His heart was flying from chest to throat. "Hermione, I-" and he had to wince before he could say the dreaded words. "I slept with her."

"Be fair," she nearly smiled. "You thought you were sleeping with me." And her blush radiated down from her cheeks to her neck.

"You don't mind?" he asked, nearly incredulous.

How was it possible that things were going to be fine? Earlier that very same day he'd renounced himself to the bleeding monks!

"Well, of course I mind," she smiled... "in a way that makes me want to throttle this girl at my earliest opportunity..."

He sighed, thoroughly happy for the first time in... well, he couldn't actually remember.

"Hey," he said, working up a grin, "I sort of lied before, when you asked if I'd seen your-" and he made a vague gesture towards her chest, clearing his throat.

Her cheeks burned crimson.

"Thanks for pointing that out..."

"It was a sort of... complicated lie..." he trailed off, still grinning.

She lifted her eyelashes as she gazed up at him, abandoning embarrassment. He swallowed hard, wanting more than anything just to kiss her.

His eyelids were heavy now, worn out completely from crying them senseless. And he knew that it would only take a couple of inches, and a breath or two, to allow his eyes to close in bliss.

There was just no choice to be made, as his fingers curled around her upper arm. And she slouched half the distance for him, his bottom lip brushing against hers, before they both shut their eyes, tilting into each other, warmth between them as her breasts collided with his goosebump-covered chest.

There was no describing this kiss. No words to express the vastness of being in the midst of nothing less than perfection.

Her lips were so soft, stacked between his. So gentle and somehow shy. Her palms spread along his shoulderblades as he tasted her bottom lip with his tongue. She parted her lips, and he felt her teeth cut gently into him before he pressed tighter against her and allowed her to lead, her tongue brushing his, sending a wave of sporadic shocks down his body... a moan escaping without his control.

She made a series of tiny little half-moans, half-squeaks, as she shivered out a breath.

He'd never thought he'd _ever_ be the one to stop. In theory, at her smallest plea, he'd strip off the rest of their clothes and-

But the mere thought of it had his heart convulsing... his erection straining in protest, opposing his resistance, even against the loose-fitting fabric of cotton pyjamas.

But they were being repaired. And he wanted every moment to mean everything. He'd had these moments once. And they'd been the start of all that had gone wrong. This time, it was going to be fucking right.

Separating for a pause, before sliding his lips into hers once more for good measure, he pulled back, gasping in air.

"Ron..." she sighed, eyes still shut and flickering.

Her chest rose and fell against his as she took heaving breaths in and out. Her hardened nipples rubbed against him with each breath, and he couldn't stand it any longer - he was surely going to explode.

So he had been right, then. There was such a thing as too many emotions for one person to handle.

"Fuck," he sighed out shakily. "Got to lie down."

And as she opened her eyes, he collapsed beyond her left shoulder, against her pillow. He dragged her down to lie beside him, facing each other as their pyjama-clad legs tangled, shuffling underneath the sheet that had bunched up halfway down the mattress.

He could glimps,e over her body, through her window, outside the protection of a half-closed bed curtain, the snow that had rapidly begun to fall.

It was mesmerizing as he breathed against her cheek, her hand dragging his arm round her waist as she turned to face the window, too, the smooth skin of her back sliding along his chest like a sheet of pure silk.

"I love you so much," he rasped, dropping his head forward, into her thick hair as he closed his eyes. "You know that, don't you?"

"I know it now," he heard her whisper, feeling a tremble of relief wash through her body as he clutched her, left arm firmly secured around her stomach.

"Don't forget," he whispered back, feeling the haze of sleep creep up to claim him.

And the human touch he'd craved so fruitlessly before was now all he could feel. Every sense, every vital function of his body... his whole world.

And he could rest, at last.

* * *

><p><em>You kept us away<em>  
><em>We'll come back tomorrow<em>  
><em>And give you one day<em>  
><em>The talent of time<em>  
><em>That thief that delays<em>  
><em>We'll come back tomorrow<em>  
><em>And tear down your ways<em>

_This is the way it has played_  
><em>But these are our riches to take<em>


End file.
